


Stolen Secrets

by PrettyLittleWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Fluff, PrettyLittleWriter, PrettyxLittlexWriter, sherlock x reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7667290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyLittleWriter/pseuds/PrettyLittleWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You knew it was inevitable that you would cross paths with Sherlock Holmes again. You'd assumed that you'd moved on with the passing of time, but when you are thrown together again during a highly sensitive and dangerous case, you realize that 7 years has done nothing to heal old wounds...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Ms. Y/L/N?” your secretary calls from your doorway, breaking your concentration. You blink several times trying to focus your eyes, which had been straining on the computer screen.

“Yes, Janet?” you ask, irritated at the interruption yet grateful for an excuse to take a break.

“There are two men here to see you,” she explains, sounding slightly anxious. “They are… inquiring about Dr. Andrews.”

“Police detectives?” You ask, leaning back in your plush leather chair and stretching the kinks from your neck. You’d already talked to so many officials about Dr. Andrews, but you knew that this investigation was far from over. 

“No, not exactly,” Janet says, wringing her hands.

“Not exactly?” you question, a cold, hard pit forming in your stomach.

“They say they are consultants, working with the police,” she explained. There is a Dr. Watson and a Mr. --”

“Holmes?” you bite out, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, how did you --”

“Nevermind, tell them I will be with them in a moment,” you say, reaching for your makeup bag that you kept in your briefcase. As Janet leaves, you pull out your mirror and appraise your appearance. A little powder, blush and some pale lipstick leave you looking refreshed. You stand and pull on your blazer, looking smart in a skirt suit set and pumps. With a deep breath, you steel yourself. You knew this day would come sooner or later and it would be best to get it over with.

You pull open your door and stride down the short hallway, heels clicking on the tiled floor as you pass Janet’s desk and enter the small waiting area.

You see him and he sees you and your heart stops beating altogether. He hasn’t changed a bit in 7 years. Tall, lean muscles hidden under a long coat, dark wavy curls, sculpted cheekbones and perfect lips. He stands and moves towards you, his long legs closing the distance quicker than you would have liked. You struggle to match his expression, cool, polite, unphased and completely unreadable.

“Y/N,” he says, his hand extended out to you. His deep, smooth baritone voice sends a tingle right down your spine.

“Mr. Holmes,” you say, giving him a quick, curt handshake before turning to his associate.

“Dr. Watson, I presume,” you say, offering the chap a smile. “I am F/N L/N, Lead Analyst for the MODs Weaponry Development Division.”

“John Watson, yes. Lovely to meet you,” he says with a charming smile.

“What brings you two in today?” you ask, looking only at John.

“We are working with Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he explains, “On the disappearance of Dr. Andrews.”

“I’ve already told Lestrade everything I know,” you explain, “Several times. As well as the Ministry’s internal affairs department.” You look directly at Sherlock. “I am not sure what more I can tell you.”

“Just a few minutes Y/N,” Sherlock says, his tone clipped and short. “Do you mind?” You do mind, but you don’t want to cause a scene in the reception area.

“This way then,” you say, turning and heading back towards your office. For some reason, it annoys you that he kept saying your name. It shouldn’t have, it was your name and you weren’t sure what else you’d have him do, but hearing it roll off his tongue, the way it used to, was making your blood boil.

You enter your office and round your desk, gesturing for the two to sit in the chairs opposite you. They settle in, as do you, folding your hands neatly on your blotter and waiting.

“Dr. Andrews worked for you,” Sherlock states. You nod. “On what exactly?”

“Yeah, I can’t really say,” you reply, trying to sound apologetic and failing.

“Bioweaponry?” Sherlock asks. You shrug and Sherlock remains unphased.

“Do you recall where he went on his last assignment?” he questions.

“Yes,” you reply simply. Finally, this elicits a frustrated sigh from the dark haired detective.

“Where then?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Can’t say,” you reply, enjoying this far more than you thought you would.

“I can get a warrant,” he says, nonchalantly.

“Oh don’t threaten me Sherlock,” you laugh, finally getting to say  _ his  _ name. “I’m an upper level analyst at the MOD. Who the hell are you?”

“Look,” Dr. Watson says, leaning in between the two of you. “We have reason to believe that Dr. Andrews was not kidnapped, but has voluntarily disappeared and we believe he may be attempting to sell information on his latest project. Anything you can tell us would be helpful.” You sigh, and sit back, feeling even more tense than you had a second ago. He had just spoken your greatest fear aloud.

“I can’t tell you much,” you say quietly. “David Andrews was a quiet, polite, unassuming man. He was never late, he never called in sick, his reports were always on time. He was working on something… dangerous. I just can’t imagine him doing something like this.”

“Debt can make a man do just about anything,” Sherlock says.

“Debt?” you ask, not convinced. “Dr. Andrews was paid quite handsomely, I assure you.”

“Not all debt is monetary,” Sherlock says, standing to leave.

“What does that mean?” you ask him. “What does he mean?” you turn to John.

“I assume your MOD background checks showed that Dr. Andrews was orphaned at a young age,” Sherlock said, turning back to you. You nod, slowly. “And that he was raised by an aunt?” Again you nod. “Did those background checks show you that his aunt lived in an apartment building owned by one Terrance Walsh?”

“Terrance Walsh, the crime boss?” you ask, shaking your head. “No… no they didn’t.”

“Shame,” he said, turning away again, placing a hand on the door knob. “Could have saved you an awful lot of time and headache.” He pulled the door open and left without another word, his long coat trailing behind him.

“Wait,” you call, dashing past John and out into the hall after him. “Wait,” you say again as you reach him. You place your hand on his arm to slow him and he jerks away as if you’ve burned him. You recoil your hand as well, wishing to God you hadn’t just done that. “Look, I can't talk here,” you whisper, your eyes pleading with him to understand. He looks down at you, his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed. He’s irritated. Very irritated. It’s not a pleasant emotion that you’ve evoked, but it’s something. Finally, you see his features softened almost imperceptibly.

“221B Baker Street,” he says at last. You nod showing your understanding and then he’s off again, disappearing around the corner.

“Thank you for your time,” John says as he passes you, following quickly behind his friend.

“My pleasure,” you say automatically, your eyes on still locked on the spot where Sherlock had been standing. After a few long moments, you catch yourself and straighten up, smoothing down your blazer and turning on your heel.

“You’re not a damn kid anymore,” you whisper harshly to yourself, vowing that Sherlock Holmes will not have the same effect that he had on you all those years ago. Not this time… not again.

* * *

 

It’s pouring rain as you dash from your cab to the front steps of 221 Baker Street. You ring the bell and wait, holding your briefcase over your head and cursing your distracted brain for letting you leave your umbrella back at your office.

The double whammy of Sherlock Holmes striding back into your life along with the news of David Andrew’s possible mob ties had rendered you pretty much useless. Now, you were here, at his home, sopping wet. Your rang the bell again and again and again and finally the door was yanked open by John Watson. You stumble inside and drip for a second on the mat.

“Sorry, forgot my umbrella,” you grumble.

“Come on upstairs and we will get you dried up,” John replies with a kind smile. You want to like him, you decide, but have serious concerns about his character since he does appear to be friends with Sherlock.

“ _ You were friends with Sherlock once _ ,” your inner monologue taunts at you and you grit your teeth as you follow John up the stairs. 

Once inside, you see Sherlock at the kitchen table, looking down into a microscope. You wait for him to acknowledge you as John takes your soaking wet rain coat and hangs it for you on a coat hook.

“Can I get you a cup of tea? And maybe a towel? John laughs.

“Tea would be great, and just point me in the direction of your washroom,” you ask. He does and when you return, you are slightly more dry and put together. You sit on the couch and Sherlock takes the chair to your right while John leans against the desk.

“You mentioned earlier that David lived in one of Walsh’s buildings,” you start. “And you think this ties them together somehow?”

“It does,” Sherlock says, leaning forward. “It appears as if Walsh took young David under his wing, keeping him out of the blue collar crime life, but using him for more white collar endeavors. We also found several large funds transfers to his Aunt’s bank account during David’s years at university and later medical school. These transfers were from a dummy corporation that we were able to trace back to Walsh.”

“But… why?” you ask, struggling to process this.

“Insurance,” John answers. “As far as we can guess. He bankrolls a bright, successful young man, ensuring that he will have someone to care for him or help him out later. He sets him up with a nice life, no ties back to his organization, no one will suspect that one day, when he needs help, it will be Dr. Andrews that will he will be calling on.”

“But you two figured it out?” you say, astonished.

“Well, one of us did,” Sherlock smirks. 

“Humble as ever,” you murmur.

“How’s your fiance?” Sherlock asks. You frown and subconsciously hide your left hand under your right.

“I don’t have a fiance” you say evenly.

“Ah,yes,” he replies, his voice taking on an air of condescension. “A recent development, I’d say… about three months ago. End of August?” You begin to feel ill as he pin points the exact time you’d called off the wedding. “You see,” he said turning to John, “Her ring finger is tan except for the white band of flesh where her considerable diamond sat all summer, protecting the skin underneath it from the sun, keeping it pale.”

“Stop it, Sherlock,” John instructs, his voice firm.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says. “She’s the one who broke it off, isn’t that right?” He looks at you, but you’re too angry to answer. “Yes, it was. Still searching for something, are we Y/N? Still hoping to find that elusive soul mate? Still hung up on true love?”

“Sherlock!” John said, much louder this time. You force yourself from the couch, standing on shaking legs, rage coursing through your veins. You push past him and grab you still wet coat.

“Oh, no, I found true love long ago,” you say as you pull it on and tie the belt around your waist. “Just my luck he turned out to be heartless bastard who could only love himself.” And with that, you fled the flat, slamming the door behind you and bounding down the stairs.

You burst onto the sidewalk, chest heaving and stand in the rain taking a moment to compose yourself. Hot, angry tears burn at your eyes.

“For fucks sake,” you yell, throwing your hands up as you realize you left your briefcase up there. You turn your collar up around your neck and turn to head back inside. As you reach for the doorknob, it’s jerked away from you and you see John standing there, holding your bag.

“I am so sorry about that,” he says, his sweet features all apologetic

“Don’t apologize for him,” you say. “I should have been prepared… I should have known better…”

“Look, I know it’s not my business but why don't you let me buy you dinner and maybe you can fill me in on what exactly the nature of your relationship with Sherlock is.” He gestures to Speedy’s right beside you and you find yourself agreeing. It has been too long since you’d spoken about what happened all those years ago. Maybe it was time.

* * *

_ “Dinner with Y/N?” Sherlock asked John when he returned much later. Sherlock had changed into his pajamas and robe and was sitting in his chair, running a bit of resin up and down his violin bow. _

_ “It was the least I could do after you were so bloody awful to her,” he said, shaking the raindrops from his hair. _

_ “And I am sure she told you all about… us?” he said. _

_ “A bit, here and there,” John replied, trying his best to be vague, but knowing this was a useless endeavor around Sherlock Holmes. _

_ “And I am sure she told you all about how awful I was,” he asked, blowing a bit of resin dust from the bowstrings. _

_ “No actually,” John said, heading to his room for the night, “That I could figure out on my own.” _

_ John sat on the edge of his bed and kicked off his shoes. He liked Y/N. She was nice enough, pretty, confident and intelligent. He’d enjoyed their meal and although he knew there were two sides to every story, the one that Y/N had relayed over dinner certainly helped shed some light on the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. _

_ Downstairs, Sherlock placed the violin under his chin and brought the bow to bear on its strings, but he could hear no melody in his head. He played a few random notes before angrily tossing the instrument aside. He walked to the window and looked down on Baker Street below. It was getting colder outside and soon they’d be barraged with snow instead of rain. He’d never concerned himself with the feelings of others these days, sentiment being an emotion he categorically avoided. He’d rattled of his observations day after day, not bothering himself with whether or not his comments made the subject uncomfortable or not, not caring if he upset John or made the situation awkward.  _

_ But tonight’s encounter with Y/N had left him feeling… Well… Feeling. And it was not something he’d experienced much of lately. He hadn’t expected this and it was a terrible inconvenience because she knew more than she was telling them and she was absolutely vital to this investigation.  _

_ He turned and picked up the violin again, a song he’d not played in years taking shape inside him.  _


	2. Ch 2

Across town, in a much nicer flat with a much nice view, you pull your thick warm robe tighter around yourself and rub at your hair with a towel. After a warm shower, you feel much better, but the interaction with Sherlock still weighed heavy on your mind.

Seven years had passed yet you were still the impulsive, emotional little girl you’d always been around him.

“God damn him,” you say aloud to your empty apartment. You cringe as you recall your outburst, how you admitted that you’d had true love once. Memories tug at your heart and you raise right hand and cover the affected organ.

You force your thoughts from Sherlock to Andrews. Mob ties that the Ministry of Defense missed. It all seemed to be too random, too obscure. Pulling your iPad out of your work bag, you run a MOD search on Terrance Walsh, reading up on the notorious London crime boss until the wee hours of the morning.

You wake only after a few hours of sleep, used to operating at near exhaustion. You send word ahead to the office that you’ll be late, you had an appointment at the prison and a few questions for Mr. Walsh.

The guards sign you in, pass you through a metal detector, search your bag, copy your driver’s license and make you fill out a few forms. Then, and only then, are you shown into a room. Just like in the movies, there is a glass wall with a telephone on each side. You are alone, save for a guard stationed by the door behind you.  You sit on the small stool and wait. Not long after, the door on the other side of the glass wall opens and you see a small, but hard looking man in handcuffs and leg shackles being led across the room towards you. He sits and lifts the phone, awkwardly, as his hands are chained together. You lift your handset.

“I don’t know you,” he says, his dark eyes boring into you. 

“I know,” you say, your voice firm and calm. “But I know you. And I know David Andrews.” You study his face, watching for a hint of recognition or a glimpse of surprise. You see neither.

“Look lady, I don’t know you and I don’t know no David Andrews,” he says. “And if I were you, I’d stay out of prison or anywhere else you might not belong.” And with that, he hung up his phone and stood, signaling to his guard that he was ready to return to his cell. 

Frustrated, you hang up, your phone, gather your bag and coat and head out, thinking that it took longer to process you through security that it took for you to meet with Walsh.

As you are exiting the building, you hear someone calling your name. You turn to see Sherlock and John coming towards you and you curse internally.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demands.

“None of your business,” you huff, crossing your arms in front of you defensively.

“Y/N, please tell me you didn’t go see Walsh,” John begs.

“He wouldn't talk to me,” you sigh. “It doesn't matter.”

“It does matter,” Sherlock says, impatiently. “You can’t be meddling around in this.”

“Meddling?” You cry. “He worked for me. He might have stolen secrets from me. I have a right to know where he is and why he did this!”

“You’re in over your head,” he replies, shoving his hands deep in his coat pockets and turning away from you. “As usual.” You feel your blood begin to boil but you refuse to snap at him like you did last night. You take a deep calming breath.

“Look, I will leave Walsh alone, but let me dig around a little more at work and see if I can turn up anything more there,” you say, stealing a glance at Sherlock, who only looks annoyed at having to stand out on the sidewalk when he could be inside  _ deducing _ things about their suspect. “I will call you if I find anything.”

You quickly take down John’s number, storing it in your phone and the two turn to leave. Sherlock hesitates a moment and turns back to you.

“This is bigger than I think you realize,” he warns. “Watch yourself. They know who you are now.” His warning makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that you’re spooked. You roll your eyes and walk away, heading to the corner to catch a cab.

* * *

 

_ “I already told your pretty little friend,” Walsh was saying. “I don’t have any idea who this Andrew character is. Sherlock cringes inwardly as this piece of garbage references Y/N.  _

_ “Your right eyelid twitched when I said his name,” Sherlock pointed out. “And your knuckles turned white when you gripped the phone a little tighter. You know him. You’re proud of him. And you were proud of yourself, too, that you’d kept your surrogate doctor son a secret all these years. But we know he is working for you. It’s just a matter of time until we find him.” Walsh grimaced, his attractive features contorting into an ever more unattractive expression. _

_ “You know what happens when noses start sniffing where they don’t belong? They get broke… Even pretty little ones.” Sherlock hung up the phone.  _

_ “Come on, John,” Sherlock said. “Let’s go.” _

_ The cab ride to the MOD was quiet, Sherlock running a thousand scenarios through his head, each one ending with an image of Y/N in danger.  _

_ “Damn that woman,” he said out loud. _

_ “What are you going to do?” John asked. “I mean, last night’s act is going to be a tough one to follow. Maybe you can insult her grandparents? Or maybe she has a puppy that died when she was young?” _

_ “John, do not make the mistake of thinking that you know her or that you know what happened with us,” Sherlock admonished. “She is in a lot of trouble and she has no idea.” _

_ They reach Y/N’s department and were promptly informed that she was out, off site at a meeting.  _

_ “Give me your phone,” Sherlock said, reaching out his hand to John. Reluctantly, he hands the phone over and Sherlock pulls up the number he had just entered. It rings and goes to voicemail.  _

_ “Y/N call us immediately, I think you may be in danger,” he says before hanging up. _

_ “Succinct and to the point,” John says, pocketing his phone. “Now what?” _

_ “Let’s go see what Lestrade can tell us about Walsh,” he answers, his jaw set tight, his mind still whirling around the threatening comment the gangster had made about Y/N earlier. “Damn that woman,” he said again, setting off towards the police precinct. _

* * *

 

In between meetings, you dig around in Dr. Andrews’ work. Your preliminary search through office records and lab reports reveal nothing out of the ordinary. Frustrated, you call it a day.

You weren’t sure if it was the power of suggestion or if you were on to something, but you couldn't’ shake the feeling you were being followed on your way home. The tube ride back into town, the walk up from the underground, a quick trip around the market and a short walk to your flat had been filled with furtive glances over your shoulder, and looks into the storefront windows to see who exactly was behind you.

You’d gotten Sherlock’s voicemail earlier in the day and promptly deleted it. He was trying to scare you off this case, maybe give you a little payback for encroaching on his work. This situation was too big, however, for you to waste any more time on any of Sherlock Holmes’ games. 

Arms full of groceries, you jiggle your key in the lock and finally with a click, it opens. It’s dark inside, but you don’t need light to find your way to the kitchen. You set the groceries down on the counter and then you reach over and flip the light switch.

Without warning, a strong arm is snaking around your neck and pulling you back against a muscular, burly body. You kick out with your legs and claw at the arm with your nails, desperately trying to get away. Another figure appears in front of you, a black ski mask obscuring his face.

“This is your only warning,” a gruff voice said. “Get your pretty little nose out places it doesn't belong.” As you continue to kick and struggle against the intruder holding you, the other man in front of you pulls on blank leather gloves, tugging them down tight around his wrist and wriggling his fingers. He takes a step towards you and raises his hand. You close your eyes as he brings the back of it down across your face and everything goes black.

 

You can taste blood in the back of your throat as you struggle to open your eyes. Everything hurts. You push yourself up and look around. You seem to be alone, the scary men from earlier must have left you to bleed all over your floor, which you have done quite well. With shaking hands, you dig your cell phone from your purse, which is still where you left it on counter. You start to dial 999, but think better of it. You pull up John Watson's number and press call. He answers, his voice betraying his relief in hearing from you. 

“Hey John, I had some visitors this evening. I think you and Sherlock had better come.” Hearing the fear in your voice he promises they are already on their way. You hang up, lock the door again, although it had been locked before and that hasn't stopped your guests from entering to wait for you. 

You brave the bathroom, grimacing at your poor, battered reflection. Two big bruises are forming under your eyes, your lip is split and your nose clearly broken. Wetting a face cloth, you dab the dried blood off your face and dig a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. 

You wrap yourself in a blanket and snuggle down into your couch, gently pressing the bag of frozen vegetables to your face. Time ticked by slowly as you wait for John and Sherlock. Your flat feels different now… dangerous… threatening.

You nearly jump out of your skin at the frantic banging on the door. 

“Y/N?” Sherlock calls from the hall. You rise gingerly and answer the door.

“Oh my god,” John gasps at the sight of you and you try to give him a small smile.

“What? Is it bad?” you tease. You open the door wider and the both push past you. You lock, bolt and chain the door behind them.

Sherlock disappears into the flat and your stomach churns at the thought of all that he will be able to deduce from just a quick inspection of your home. John leads you into the kitchen to get a better look at your face.

“Well, your nose is broken,” he says, grimly. He pinches it gently and you wince, your eyes tearing up. “It doesn't need to be set, it was a clean break. You will heal up just fine.” He replaces the bag of peas with a propper ice pack he’s fashioned out of a ziplock bag, towel and ice cubes.

Sherlock has returned and is eyeing you from across the room, arms folded over his chest.

“Nothing out of place?” he asks. You shake your head and he sighs.

“We need to phone Lestrade,” John says at last and you know he’s right. There will also need to be a report made to your superiors at the MOD and you will have to take time away from the office until your face stops looking like you went several rounds with Mike Tyson.

Lestrade comes and John and Sherlock watch as you give your report. Height, weight, building, accent… there isn’t a lot you can say.

“And they told me this was my only warning, to keep my nose out of places it didn’t belong…” you tell the Detective Inspector. Sherlock stiffens.

“Were those their exact words?” he asks. You think for a moment.

“His exact words were ‘ _ get your pretty little nose out places it doesn't belong _ ’,” you recount. 

“That is exactly what Walsh said today at the prison,” he informs Lestrade. “They know who she is.”

“We’ll put an officer outside her door,” Lestrade says, pulling out his phone.

“We’ll stay,” John says and Sherlock’s eyebrows raised. “Won’t we?”

“Fine,” he sighs. 

“That OK with you?” Lestrade asks you and suddenly you feel exhausted. You don’t want them to stay, a uniform in the hall would do just fine, but you have a feeling John will insist so you shrug.

“Keep me informed of any more developments,” Lestrade says to Sherlock and John as he leaves. You show the men where there is food in the fridge, where your TV clicker is and give them you wi-fi password before you turn in.

“Thank you for staying,” you say, now feeling grateful that it was them and not just an cop parked outside. 

“Just get some rest,” John says. You try to smile and turn to Sherlock, who simply nods at you. You leave them there, chatting quietly and ready yourself for bed. You pull the blankets up to your chin and close your eyes, the throbbing in your face dulled by two Tylenol you’d taken a short while ago and drift off into a fitful slumber.

 

You bolt upright in your bed several hours later, a thin layer of sweat coating your skin, making your t-shirt stick to you. You place your hand to your throat, the feeling the the arm that had been wrapped around it in your nightmare lingering even though you were now wide awake. 

You’re shaking, your heart thudding in your chest. Your apartment was too quiet and for a panicked second, you wonder if John and Sherlock left. You throw the covers back and almost run from your room. 

There is one small lamp on in the living area and you see Sherlock perched on your couch, long legs crossed in front of him, his nose in book.

“I sent John home to his wife,” he says, looking up from the book at you. You look around your huge, dark flat and shiver. You suddenly hate being here.

“You can go,” you say, even though you want nothing more than for him to stay.

“No, I can’t,” he says, closing the book and setting it on the coffee table. “You’re terrified.” You sigh and join him on the the couch, leaving plenty of space between the two of you. 

“I am sorry,” you murmur after a few long, quiet moments. “I shouldn’t have gotten involved in this.”

“You’re right,” he says sternly and you feel your blood pressure start to rise. Why did everything he say sound so hateful?

“It wasn’t my fault, you know,” you bite out at him.

“No one asked you to go speak to Walsh at the prison, Y/N,” he replied cooly.

“I’m not talking about Walsh,” you reply, heatedly. “I am talking about..us.” Sherlock looks away from you and you wish you could see what was playing out on his usually stoic face.

“There was never an ‘us’,” he replies. You feel tears spring into your eyes and you bite them back.

“There was for me,” you whisper. “I don’t understand why, all these years later, you are still punishing me for feeling the way I did.”

“I’m not punishing you, Y/N,” he says, quietly. You stand, needing to leave before you act any more foolish than you already have.

“Well, if this is you being nice,” you call over your shoulder, bitterly. “I’d hate to get on your bad side.” You close your bedroom door behind you as the first tear falls. Seven years later and you were still crying over Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_ Sherlock listened as the door to the bedroom clicked shut. He picked the book back up and opened to the spot where he had left off, but his eyes didn’t see the words. He could only see the bright, beautiful young face of Y/N, looking up at him, smiling at him adoringly. _

_ She seemed so different from that young girl who’d come to him all those years ago, searching for answers on the death of her father. There was a fire there that was absent when he’d known her. Back then, she’d been so desperate for closure, so ready to believe that he could save her. And instead, he’d destroyed her. _

_ He’d lied to her tonight, about not punishing her. He lied to her almost the entire time he’d known her. They’d worked side by side on her case, but progress was slow going. She had helped him solve a few other random cases here and there, while they chipped away on hers, finding only a few small clues that pointed towards foul play in the death of her dad. _

_ He knew that she had been falling for him and although he did nothing to encourage her, he did nothing to stop her. He liked her, he liked having a friend, a partner.  _

_ He’d entertained the notion of becoming more, of allowing her in and he’d come close, but there were some things even Sherlock Holmes wasn’t capable of.  _

_ He shut the book again and with a sigh, he rose from the couch. He forced himself in the direction she’d gone off him, taking a quick detour by her medicine cabinet, grabbing some Tylenol and a glass of water for her. _

_ He rapped on the door with his knuckle. _

_ “What?” the angry voice of Y/N called out. Not answering, he pushed the door open. _

_ “It’s been 6 hours since you last took some medication,” he said, holding out the pills and water her her. She sat and took them wordlessly. If Sherlock was a man who apologized, now would have been a perfect time, but neither of them tried to fool themselves into thinking this was a possibility. Y/N took both, setting the glass down on her nightstand when she was done and settling down in bed again. _

_ “I will just be out here,” he said, turning to leave, “If you need anything.” She didn’t respond. _

_ He returned to the living room, wandering around, looking over her belongings, photos and nick-nacks. He paused in front of a bookshelf and felt a wry smile form on his lips. He reached up and pulled out a collection of James Joyce’s short stories. They had always disagreed about her love of Joyce. As he flipped through the worn pages, something fell out and fluttered to the ground. He stooped and picked it up, gently holding it in his long fingers. _

_ It was an old picture of him, standing on the edge of a bluff, wind ruffling his curls, blowing his long trench-coat out behind him. He was looking in her direction, an impatient expression on his face. They’d followed a clue to a small village in North Yorkshire and they’d stopped on the side of the road to stretch their legs. She had insisted on snapping his photo. _

_ Looking down at the picture, he could see the rain clouds off in the distance with him in the foreground, blissfully unaware of the torrents that would sound be bearing down upon them. _

_ He had no pictures of her, save for the ones he kept stored away in his memory and those paled in comparison to the real thing. He tucked the photo back into the book and returned both to the shelf. _


	3. Ch 3

 

Your face healed up nicely, as John said it would. Your bruising had turned yellow and you were able to hide it under your make up. Word had spread around your office that you’d been attacked and that it was related to Dr. Andrew’s disappearance. 

After a few days, the whisperers died down and work returned to business as normal. When you had a few free minutes, you continued to shift through Andrews’ research, trying to find something, anything that might lead you to him.

Sherlock and John kept at their own investigation and you left them to it. They’d check in with you every few days, usually with a call, but sometimes with an unannounced visit to your flat, which you secretly enjoyed, as it meant you weren’t there alone.

You refused to let either of them stay another night, allowing Lestrade to place a car down out front of your building. But this car did nothing to stop your nightmares and sleep was becoming impossible.

One night, about three weeks after the break-in, you are awake, on your couch, flipping through infomercials on TV when your phone buzzes. You look down and see a text from Sherlock.

_ - _ **_You should sleep_ ** _.  _ You actually roll your eyes at your phone.

\-- **_So should you_ ** **you** type back. Your phone buzzes again.

- **_I’m outside._ ** Frowning, you rise from your couch and wrap your blanket around yourself. You tiptoe over to the front door and peer out through the peephole. He was actually there. You undo the locks and open the door.

“How did you know I was awake,” you ask as he breezes by you, not waiting for an invitation. You shut the door behind him and re-lock it.

“When John and I saw you last week, you looked terrible,” he says, placing a manila folder on the kitchen table and pulling off his coat, draping it over the back of a chair.

“You still know how to compliment a lady,” you sigh, pulling your blanket tighter around you. You were clad only in a camisole and panties, not anticipating any visitors at this late hour.

“Bags under your eyes, coffee stains on your sleeves, constantly yawning,” he rattles off, “You’re still having nightmares.”

“Wow, Sherlock. Impressive,” you deadpan. “Why are you here?”

“I found something I wanted you to have a look at,” he says, sliding the folder towards you.

“And you couldn't wait until tomorrow?” you ask.

“What for? We’re both awake now,” he says, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He did have a point so you follow suit and as you do, the blanket slips off your shoulder slightly revealing a lacy edge of your cami. You struggle to get covered again, but now that you are clutching the blanket, you can’t flip through the file.

“Screw it,” you mutter, letting it go and reaching for the file. It wasn’t like Sherlock was interested in what you had to cover up anyway. It falls open around you as you shuffle through the pages, reading through each one carefully.

“These are weapons plans, but old ones. Scrapped ones. Nothing that Andrews was working on,” you say when you’ve finished.

“I have a source that intercepted these yesterday, someone trying to sell them,” Sherlock explained. 

“Why? They are useless, they are half complete and a decade old,” you explain.

“Don’t you see? It’s brilliant,” he says enthusiastically. “You MOD servers are set to intercept word on any of Andrews’ current projects. They’d never think to program a search for old, abandoned and forgotten projects.”

“But why would he want to sell off abandoned research?” you ask, wishing your brain would kick into gear.

“What if,” Sherlock starts, leaning in and tapping his fingers on the pile of papers, “What if Andrews finished them?” You look from him down to the pages and then back up to him.

“Then we are in a lot of trouble,” you murmur. “We need to tell someone, my bosses, everyone.”

“We have to wait,” he said, shaking his head. “We have to wait for a buyer. And we have to watch Walsh. They are transferring him to a minimum security prison in a few weeks. Something tells me he is not going to make it there.”

“Sherlock,” you say slowly, trying to wrap your head around this. “A jail break and weapons of mass destruction and you want to wait?”

“We have to,” he insists, shaking his head. “We have to locate Andrews. If not these plans, then maybe he has more. Walsh was like a father to him, Andrews won’t stop until Walsh is free, hidden away somewhere safe, set up for the rest of his life.” You stomach tightens, fear gripping your chest like a vice. Not reporting what you know could cost you your job, but there was more at stake here. Someone was out there, possibly in possession of countless government secrets. You look at Sherlock and inhale deeply. If anyone could catch Andrews, it was him.

“Ok,” you nod at last. “Ok. You’re right. Tell me what to do.”

“Pack a bag,” he says standing. “And for God’s sake, put on some clothes.”

“A bag? Why?” You ask, closing your blanket around you again.

“Because you’re coming back to Baker Street,” he informs you as he gathers up the pages and shoves them back in the file. “There’s a spare room, you can get some rest and we can figure out what to do next.”

“Rest? At Baker Street?” you ask, realizing how stupid you sound. 

“Yes,” he said simply. “Go pack.” You chew on the inside of your cheek, actually debating this ridiculous offer. You know he’s offering because it makes sense, not because he’s worried or cares at all. The fact is, you’re scared to be here alone and Sherlock is all about the facts.

“Fine,” you relent, taking your blanket and darting to your room. You dress, throwing on an oversized sweatshirt and leggings and tucking a few days worth of clothing into a suitcase.

Finally ready, you follow Sherlock outside, carrying your own bag of course, because he hasn’t thought to offer to take it from you.

As you pile into a cab next to him, you allow yourself to imagine for just one second, that he did care, that he was worried, that he wanted to help you. You watch him, furiously typing away on his phone. He feels your eyes on him and looks up at you. He gives you a quick smile that you know to be fake and you shake your head, banishing all your silly little thoughts to the cold London night.

  
  


The next morning you awake in a strange bed and look at the clock on your phone. Almost 10am on Saturday morning. You roll over and stretch, unable to believe that you slept at all, never mind that you slept like the dead. You sit up and pull on your sweatshirt again, smoothing your hair down before heading down to the living room.

You almost as surprised to see John Watson sitting there as he is to see you. He folds the paper he had been reading and greets you.

“Sherlock didn’t mention he had, um, company,” he stammered.

“Don’t get excited, there, Watson,” you tease. “I spent the night in your old room, alone. I hadn’t been able to sleep very well at my place since…” You unconsciously touch your fingertips to your nose, which was still a bit sore.

“Well, it looks like you were able to catch up here then?” he asked

“I did,” you say, stretching your arms out above your head and yawning. You felt good, refreshed and clearer than you had in days. “Where is our friend then?” You ask, looking around.

“Dunno,” John says, picking up the paper again. “I got a text to meet him here an hour ago and he wasn’t here when I arrived.” With a frown, you head to the kitchen and try to locate something to eat. Not surprised that you’ve found nothing, you quickly change and head downstairs to Speedy’s, getting a coffee for you and John and some deliciously greasy breakfast sandwiches.

Balancing the coffees and and a paper bag with the food, you return to 221B. As you enter the room, you see Sherlock has returned and he was not alone.

“Ugh, Mycroft,” you groan, not bothering to keep the distaste from your voice. 

“Delightful to see you as well, Y/N,” Mycroft replies politely. Ignoring him, you hand John his coffee and the entire bag with the breakfast sandwiches. 

“Here. I’ve lost my appetite. I will be in the other room until he leaves,” you say, turning to leave.

“Actually,” Sherlock calls, “It’s you he is here to see.” 

“Fantastic,” you murmured, returning to the living room. You perch on the edge of the sofa, arms crossed over your chest and wait for him to talk. “So to what do I owe this pleasure.”

“I understand your department is a few secrets lighter, as of late,” he starts. You cast a glare in Sherlock’s direction.

“You told him,” you accuse.

“No,” he says with a single shake of his head. “He already knew.”

“All powerful and all knowing, too, then?” you say to Mycroft.

“Not quite,” he replied with a tight lipped smile. “At any rate, we can’t have any of the documents leaked, for obvious reasons, so I am going to offer you my assistance.”

“Lucky us,” John jests, making you smile.

“So here is what I can offer you,” he continues. “Tomorrow, at midnight, your MOD servers will be undergoing a routine update. We are going to program a bug that gives all users access to all archived and restricted files. It will take IT Security approximately one minute to catch onto this error and about 30 seconds for them to locate the coding discrepancy and rectify this mistake.”

“So we have to be at the MOD at midnight, tomorrow, at a computer?” you ask.

“Yes. And keep in mind you will not be able to print or save any of the documents that you view as the system will log file transfers,” Mycroft warns.

“What about viewing history,” you ask. “They’ll see what I’ve opened.”

“The bug we will be using will open various, random files on all user profiles, so it will look like every MOD user will be inundated with random files.”

“This is insane,” you say, shaking your head. “You could be showing restricted employees classified information.”

“It’s for a minute and thirty seconds in the middle of the night,” Mycroft shrugs. “Collateral damage will be kept to a minimum. We need to know what else Andrews may be in possession of. Do you have any questions?”

“No,” Sherlock says standing. “Thank you so much for your assistance, now kindly show yourself out.”

“Happy to be of service, brother mine,” Mycroft says standing. “Y/N, do take care,” he adds, nodding at you. You grimace and do not reply. The three of you wait until he leaves before anyone speaks again.

“Ok, well, that doesn't sound too difficult,” you say first. “I have been known to pop into the office at all hours, so it won’t look too out of place.”

“You’re not going,” Sherlock says, moving to the window and gazing out.

“What?” you exclaim, jumping up. “Like hell I’m not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, his voice full of disdain. “We’ll take your badge and your login and password.”

“I am NOT give you my badge,” you insist.

“You already have,” he said, pulling it from the depths of his coat pocket. He must have swiped it while you were out getting coffee.

“Sherlock!” you snarl. “You are not leaving me out of this, not again.”

You see him stiffen slightly and you know that _he_ knows exactly what you are talking about. “You will stick out like a sore thumb. I’m your way in, NOT the badge and you damn well know it. Give it back to me now.” You hold out your hand, palm up and wiggle your fingers. “Sherlock. Now.” No one moves, both your eyes and John’s fixated on Sherlock's back. Without turning back to you, he holds up your badge between his first and second finger and you snatch it back quickly.

“We’re going with you then,” he informs you.

“Nope,” you reply, shoving the badge into the back pocket of your jeans. Finally he turns to you, his cold eyes narrowed. He takes two steps in your direction and he is now towering over you. You swallow hard and grit your teeth, standing your ground.

“It is not open for discussion,” he growled and could could hear the ire in his deep voice and feel the anger radiating off of him. “John and I are accompanying you and that is final.” He steps away from you, over to his chair and practically throws himself into it, steepling his fingers together and resting them on this chin, already deep in thought.

You realize you are standing in the middle of the room, fists clenched, jaws clenched and knees locked. You slowly un-tense and walk right over to him.

“Just don’t fucking leave without me, Sherlock,” you warn. “I know how much you love to sneak out while I am asleep.” You pretend not to notice John’s amused expression as you leave, grabbing your food and coffee and returning to your room.

 

The next night, slightly wired from too much coffee and nerves, you, Sherlock and John enter your office building. You pull your badge out and present it to the evening security guard, who signs you in.

“Good Evening, Ms. L/N,” he say, handing you back your badge. “Are these gentlemen with you?” You look back over your shoulder as if you’d forgotten they were there.

“Oh, yes, these are my bodyguards,” you laugh nervously, then frown. “They have to follow me around at night, since I was attacked…”

“I had heard about that, ma’am,” the guard replied somberly. “I am sorry. I can only let one up with you, though. New security measure.” You exchange a quick look with John and Sherlock and he speaks up.

“I’ll go,” he says and John nods.

“Just need to see some credentials,” the guard says and Sherlock nods, producing a badge from his coat. “Thank you, Mr. Lestrade.” You struggle to hide your grin.

“That’s Detective Inspector,” Sherlock corrects and you roll your eyes.

“Sorry, sir,” the guard stammers as the two of you walk away.

You take the lift up to your floor. You check your watch and see that you have about ten minutes until midnight. You quickly lead Sherock back to your office but freeze as you round the corner. 

“Housekeeping,” you hiss, your pulse starting to quicken. There were two housekeepers bustling around the office, dusting, vacuuming and emptying the bins. “Shit.”

“Where else can we go?” Sherlock asked, checking his own watch.

“The labs,” you say, heading back to the lift and taking it down to the ground floor. You stop in the first lab you see and grab two crisp white lab coats.

“Put this on,” you say, handing Sherlock one. “We will blend in better.” You both pull them on as you walk, down a maze of halls, until you get to a lab with a bank of computers. You check your watch one last time as you settle down in front of one.

“Get you camera ready,” you instruct him as you log in. He pulls it from his pocket and opens the camera. You keep an eye on the second hand of your watch as it clicks closer to 12 midnight.

“Five… four… three.. Two...one,” you count down and suddenly a MOD search browser opened on your screen. You tapped start on the stopwatch on your phone and began your search.

“Classification Levels three through five, weaponry, project terminated, last ten years,” you murmur as you type. You hit “enter” and files start to pop up on your screen. You click through them one by one, moving to the next as quickly as Sherlock can snap a picture. You glance at your phone.

“One minute,” you whisper. The two of your click and snap your way through the documents on the screen. “Thirty seconds…. Twenty….ten...five….” then suddenly your screen goes blue. It’s over, the IT department identified the string of code and corrected it. You lean back in your chair, waiting for your heart beat to return to normal. You glance at Sherlock who is scrolling back through his photos.

“Got it. Got it all,” he confirms and he turns and looks at you, offering you a rare, genuine smile. You laugh with relief.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” you say standing. He follows you from the lab and the door shuts rather loudly behind you. The next sound you hear are footsteps, coming your way. You turn and head away from them, but the heels of your boots are making clicking noises on the tiles, giving you away. You swear under your breath. You round a corner and Sherlock skids to a stop. Reaching out, he grabs your wrist and spins you, quickly shoving you up against the wall before you know what is happening. His hand moves to your waist, bunching the hem of your shirt up and resting his palm on your bare skin, just above your jeans. He leans in close, almost pressed up against you and dipping his head, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Just close your eyes,” he whispers, “And move your hands to my hair…” you blink, unable to move, unable to do anything except feel his skin against yours. “Do it,” he hisses, snapping you out of your trance and you quickly tangle your fingers in his curls. Suddenly, he moves again, his lips trailing kisses along your jaw and you do close your eyes, not because he asked you to, because you actually can’t help it. 

“Hey!” a voice calls from down the other end of the hall. You both look up to see another security guard, out patrolling the halls. “You can’t be down here.” Sherlock leaps away from you, hurriedly adjusting his lab coat around himself and smoothing his hair down. You stand stunned, still reeling from what just happened before you start to do the same.

“Hey, friend,” Sherlock says, purposely sounding anxious. “We were just, uh…”

“Yeah, yeah. I know what you were doing,” the security guard smirks. “I will need to see some identification.” Sherlock runs his hands through his hair nervously, looking from the guard to you and back again. “Look, maybe we can work something out,” he says, pulling out his wallet. He holds out a wad of cash towards the guard. “You can forget you saw us. I really can’t afford another report,” he adds, his voice pleading. The guard narrows his eyes and hesitates. You hold your breath.

“Forgotten,” he says at last, snatching the money from Sherlock’s hand. “Get out of here.”

“Gone,” he says, grabbing your hand and tugging you back down the hallway. You wind back through the long corridors and reach the elevator. You both pull off your white lab coats and toss them in the bin sitting under the “UP” button.

The elevator arrives, you head straight to the rear and lean our back against the wall while Sherlock hits the “Lobby” button and the doors slide shut. With his back to you, you raise your hand to your jaw and run your fingertips over the spots that Sherlock had kissed, trying desperately to erase the feeling of his lips and not succeeding in the least.


	4. Ch 4

_Sherlock watched wordlessly as Y/N shuffled sleepily from her bedroom to the bathroom. He smiled to himself, now that she couldn’t see. She was never a morning person, as he recalled, but like him, she did function pretty well on little sleep._

_The previous night had brought back so many memories that he wished he could have kept at bay. Long nights, sifting through documents, internet searches and digging around in the box of belongings her father had left behind. He remembered her falling asleep at his kitchen table, back in the terrible flat he’d had in Battersea. He remembered watching her doze, her eyes moving beneath her lids, her brow creasing from some unseen stressor. He’d wanted to wake her, wanting to keep her from harm, even the imaginary type. He’d intentionally bumped a book off the table and the sound of it hitting the floor had jarred her from her slumber._

_Now, she was staying with him, at Baker Street. He had told her that the sleep would do her good and she’d been so tired she’d agreed with no further questions. What he hadn’t told her was that the communication that they’d intercepted with the half finished plans had also mentioned her by name. Which meant that wherever David Andrews was hiding, he knew that Y/N was looking for him. Which meant that she needed a close eye kept on her._

_“Want some?” Y/N called from the kitchen and Sherlock glanced up at her. She was holding out the pot of coffee towards him._

_“No, thanks,” he said and she set it back down, bringing her mug back to her room to get ready for work. She could hardly look at him since last night. He’d not been wrong to use a romantic interlude as a ruse. It was a brilliant idea, he knew it and she knew it. But just as she couldn’t shake the feeling of the kisses he’d trailed across her skin, neither could he forget how soft and warm she felt under his hands and lips._

_He felt suddenly angry, agitated. She was in danger, she’d been hurt, badly, all because he’d gone and involved her in this case. He knew there was no case without her, knew that they needed her input, her access and her years of experience. At the same time, just as certainly as he knew these things, he wished he could get her as far away from this case as possible. It annoyed him to no end that he couldn’t._

_After a while, she breezed in, looking a full 180 degrees different than she had when she’d first woken up. Her hair was done and styled and she’d added the tiniest bit of make up. She wore a simple, tailored black suit and black pumps. She looked every bit like the successful government employee that she was._

_“Well, I’m off,” she called. “Do you want me to grab dinner tonight on my way home? We can look over the photos you grabbed while we eat?”_

_“Don’t bother,” he replied, waving his hand dismissively with a flick of his wrist. “I won’t be hungry…”_

_“You need to eat, Sherlock,” she laughed. He narrowed his eyes at you._

_“I don’t need you to tell me what I need to do, Y/N,” he scolded, his tone acrid. “Now run along to the office like a good little worker bee and get to work on all those weapons that you make to save us from the evils of the world.” He looked away, not wanting to see the stung expression on her face. She collected her bag and coat and left quickly, without another word. When he heard the door slam shut downstairs, he let out the breath he’d been holding and pinched the bridge of his nose._

_It was all he had at his disposal, these biting comments and the indifferent attitude, to keep her from getting too close again, for both their sake._

 

* * *

 

You stay at work much later than usual. Not wanting to go back to Baker Street, not wanting to go home. You’re head is throbbing from staring at your computer screen all day and you decide to take a break. You leave your now deserted office and head downstairs to the equally deserted cafeteria. A lone food service worker is manning the cash register and you buy one cup of hot coffee before returning back to your office.

Pushing the door open to your office, you freeze, your blood running cold. There is a white lab coat draped over the back of your leather desk chair that most certainly wasn’t there when you left just minutes before. You set down your Styrofoam coffee cup and slowly move around to the back of your desk. With one finger, you lift the coat and turn it to see a name embroidered there. Your hand recoils as you realize this coat belonged to David Andrews. As you drop the coat, it falls to the floor and you hear the tinkling of a set of keys in the pocket.

Your heart is still hammering in your chest as you reach down and dig the keys out. It’s a small ring, no keychain, just five ordinary looking, unmarked brass keys. Forgetting your coffee, you leave your office and head one floor down to Andrews’ old office. It’s closed and locked, a line of yellow crime scene tape still strung across it. You try each key, but none successfully open his door. Again, you take the lift down to the basement where the labs are located and the image of Sherlock pressing you into the wall flashes behind your eyes. You blink it away as you locate Andrews lab. No crime scene tape blocks this door, as Andrews shared his workspace with three other scientists. You try all the keys and again strike out.

Frowning and thoroughly spooked, you return to your office. Everything was as you left it, the white coat still on the ground. Not sure what else to do, you fold it and tuck it inside your bag, and shove the keys into your jacket pocket as you head out. You are almost to the lifts when you think of one more thing. You return to your office, wake up your computer and look up Andrews home address, jotting it down on a yellow post it note, which you also tuck into the pocket of your jacket before fleeing one uncomfortable environment for another.

The entire trip back to Baker Street, you work on your game face, needing to hide how freaked out you are. Someone was in your office with you. Someone knew when you’d left, someone who wanted to send you a message. But what message? And why? You need time to figure out what it all meant before Sherlock could get his hands on the clues and cut you out again.

As you enter 221B, you take a deep breath, you try to clear your face of any worry or stress or any other emotion that might betray you.

“Hey,” you call as you enter, avoiding Sherlock who is still in his chair where you left him this morning.

“What happened?” he calls, jumping up and chasing after you. You stop quickly and he almost crashes into you.

“Nothing,” you say in the calm manner you’d practiced.

“You’re lying,” he accuses. “What happened?”

“Leave me alone, Sherlock,” you sigh, wondering how in the world he could have picked up on it so quickly. But then again, that was Sherlock. He grabs your elbow and you wince.

“This doesn’t work on me, Y/N,” he says, his voice low and deep, his grip on your arm growing tighter. “I see through you. I’ve always been able to see through you. You’re scared.”

“Yeah,” you reply. “Of you.” You try to jerk your arm away but he only squeezes tighter. Your pulse is pounding in your ears.

“No,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “No, you’re not scared of me, though you should be. You like the way I make you feel.”

“Let go of me,” you demand and he only smiles down smugly at you.

“You pretend to carry a grudge after all these years, but deep down, you are thrilled to be back in the mix with me,” he says with that all knowing, confident tone of his. You jerk your arm away one last time and finally he releases you.

“Go to hell,” you say as you turn away.

“Oh, don’t act like you wouldn’t climb right into bed with me right now if I was so inclined. Still that same eager girl you were all those years ago.” You spin on him and before you realize what you were doing, your open hand connects sharply with cheek, the slap echoing off the walls. You stare at him and he stares back, your chest heaving with deep, agitated breaths, adrenaline pumping through your veins. His expression a blank slate, he steps towards you and you flinch away, not really believing he’d strike you but your reflexes kick in automatically. As you do, he reaches out and grabs your bag away and it slips from your fingers before you can stop him. He smiles, satisfied and you realize he planned the whole exchange, that he knew exactly what to say to you to rile you up and distract you long enough to swipe your bag.

You are shaking with rage as you stand there watching him unzip your bag and pull out Andrews’ lab coat. He reads the name and his eyes widen.

“Someone left this for you?” he asks, holding the coat up and examining it closer. You don’t answer because you don’t need to. He just knows. “There’s blood on it.” He holds up a section of fabric to you, but you are still too angry too even focus your eyes on it. He leaves you and sets up at his microscope in the kitchen. Anger slowly began to give way to humiliation at how well he just played you. He’d always used your feelings for him against you. He’d always been so cunning, right up until the last time you saw him seven years before. He’d used your desire as a distraction back then, too, checking you into a cozy little inn, one room that time instead of the usual two separate rooms. You’d been so ready, you’d loved him so deeply that you didn’t even notice him slipping away, cutting you out even then. Humiliation turns back into anger and you approach him.

“You listen to me,” you say, speaking slowly and carefully. He doesn’t take his eyes from the microscope so you reach over and switch it off.

“Do you mind?” he asks, exasperated, finally looking up at you.

“I loved you back then,” you admit, “But you knew that and you still know it. There is a part of me that loves you now. I wish that there wasn’t and trust me, I am working on changing that. Someone caring for you is not a defect or weakness on their part and you are done exploiting whatever feelings I have left after tonight.” He blinks at you a few times.

“Is that all?” he asks and you nod. He switches on his microscope again and returns to his examination as you exit the flat, stomping down the stairs and out to the street, where a light snow has begun to fall. Still to angry to cry, you set off down the street, not really heading anywhere in particular, just needing to walk.

You shove your hands into your jacket for warmth and feel the keys and the post it note there. A smile forms on your lips. You’d unknowingly outsmarted Sherlock Holmes. You read the address again and quickly hail a taxi cab, directing the driver to Andrew’ home.

He drops you off on the edge of town, on a darkened residential street. The snow is collecting on the ground now and the flakes are getting bigger and heavier. Regretting that your altercation with Sherlock had prevented you from changing out of your suit and high heels, you pick your way up the walk and climb the slippery steps to Andrews’ porch. You knock, feeling foolish, knowing no one is home, then try the keys, one by one, on the front door lock. Nothing.

You leave the porch, picking your way around back into the garden. You pat your pockets, searching for your phone to use as a flashlight, but realize that it was still in the bag Sherlock had robbed you of. Your feet are starting to ache with cold as you reach the back door. You try the keys without success there and at the garden shed. Frustrated, you turn to leave when you catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye. A hatchway to an old root cellar, set towards the back of the yard. You change direction, crossing the snowy grass and see that it is secured with a padlock. Once again, you produce your key ring and you are pleasantly surprised when one of the keys does slide in.

Removing the lock, you lift the heavy door and peer down inside. A flashlight rests on the top step and you grab it, firing it up. A dim beam illuminates a dozen or so steps down and you chew your lip, debating entering. Forcing yourself forward, you climb down, your flashlight beam bouncing off the walls and floor as you do. At the bottom, you sweep the light back and forth over empty canning shelves until it comes to rest on a file box. You move to inspect it when suddenly the thunderous sound of the hatchway door being slammed closed startles you so badly you drop your flashlight.

“Wait!” you cry, dashing up the steep cement stairs and trying to force the door open with your shoulder. It doesn’t budge. “NO!” you scream, terror suddenly clamping down on your heart. You continue to bang and scream until your voice is ripped to shreds and your hands are warm and sticky with blood.

You are in full blown panic mode, hyperventilating and shaking. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a calm voice instructs you to stop. To think. You snatch up the flashlight and examine every inch of the cellar. It’s a small room, cement walls with a shelf on one side and a lone file box, which you want to examine, but the reality of your current situation and finding a way out being far more pressing.

For now, your adrenaline is pumping and you don’t feel the cold, but you know it’s only a matter of time before that wears off. You spend long minutes searching the room and thinking hard and you come up with absolutely nothing. You feel the panic rising up in your throat again, but that tiny, calm voice speaks to you from the depths of your mind.

“Sherlock will find you,” it says and you know this to be true. He will without a doubt find you. You can only hope you are alive when he does.


	5. Ch 5

_ John had only just arrived at 221b before being sent directly back out to collect Y/N and bring her back. _

_ “Had a disagreement,” Sherlock muttered and out John went, back into the snow. He took a cab to her apartment, but she wasn’t there. When he had phoned Sherlock and informed him, the other man was out the door in a matter of seconds, instructing John to meet him at her office immediately.  _

_ The security guard from last night recognized them and once again flashing Lestrade’s badge, Sherlock ordered him to take them up to her office. _

_ “She’s not here,” he informed them, checking the logs. “She punched out a few hours ago.” _

_ “Take us NOW,” Sherlock barked and the guard skittered around the security desk and led them up to her office. He unlocked the door and let them inside. Sherlock rounded her desk and sat in her chair, shaking her mouse and bringing her computer to life. _

_ It took him only a few attempts to guess her password and he began to rifle through her files, emails and calendar. _

_ “I am not sure you should be--” the guard began, timidly. _

_ “Don’t make me call your superior and inform him or her that you are impeding a police investigation,” Sherlock said calmly. The guard clamped his mouth shut. “This is useless, there is nothing here, her history was erased when she logged off.” He glanced around her desk, which was irritatingly neat, save for one lone pale yellow stack of post-it notes. He grabbed them and held them up in front of his face, squinting at them. He dropped them back to the desk and pulled out the small middle drawer, producing a pencil. Lightly, delicately, he rubbed the pencil over the post it and the address she’d scribbled there hours before appeared in relief. _

_ “Come on!” he cried, leaping up and hurrying from the office. John hurried behind him, thinking that he’d rarely seen his friend so worried. _

_ “Sherlock,” John called after him once they were outside. “What was the disagreement about?” _

_ “She found something…” he explained, trying to hail a taxi. “She was left something. Andrews’ lab coat. She wasn’t going to tell me and I… I persuaded her to.” A black car pulled to the curb and they both climbed in. _

_ “Oh God, what did you do?” he said, his stomach dropping to his toes. _

_ “What I always do,” Sherlock snapped. _

_ “Pushed all the right buttons in all the wrong ways?” John offered. _

_ “Precisely,” he murmured.  _

_ “Why would she go to his house?” John wondered aloud. _

_ “I’m assuming she was given more than just a lab coat,” He said, rubbing one finger back and forth across his chin as he thought. “And my guess is she stumbled right into a trap.” _

_ The cab pulled up in front of the darken house and Sherlock leapt out before it had even come to a complete. His shoes crunched in the layer of snow that had accumulated on the ground as he walked. His eyes were zeroing in on every little nuance of his surroundings. Footprints on the walk, a round triangle followed by a small dot: heeled pumps. Another set, larger, boots, Timberlands, by the looks of them. The first set went up to the porch then back down and wound around the back. The second set came from the street and followed the same path. _

_ “Back this way,” Sherlock called to John, who was paying the cabbie. He took off, not bothering to wait, following the shoeprints which were getting lost in the grass and snow. Faintly he could see them still, off to the back door, towards the shed then out to the middle of the yard. He squinted in the dark and finally saw the entrance to an old root cellar. He crossed the yard quickly and as he neared the hatchway, you noticed that they were being held shut with the wooden end of a garden rake shoved through the two iron handles of the doors.  _

_ “Y/N!” He shouted, sliding the rake out and hefting open one of the wooden doors. “John! Back here!” He cried before quickly making his descent into the cellar. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he could see a darkened form huddled in the corner. _

_ He ran to her, dropping to his knees beside her, afraid to touch her, afraid that he was too late. John was beside him suddenly and he was already checking for a pulse. _

_ “She’s alive,” he confirmed and Sherlock quickly shrugged out his coat, wrapping it around her and John followed suit. “We've got to warm her up,” John instructed and Sherlock nodded. He slipped one arm under her knees and one around her back and lifted her, clutching her to him, hoping the little warmth from his own body would do something to help her. She groaned as he moved her, making his heart studder with relief. _

_ “I knew…” She whispered faintly, “I knew you’d come…” He felt as if his knees might buckle.  _

_ “She’s freezing,” he said as he carried her up the stairs and out into the yard. “We’ve got to get inside.” John ran ahead, to the back door. He reached up, brought his elbow back and squeezing his eyes shut, he looked away, smashing in a small pane of glass in the back door. He carefully reached in and undid the lock, letting the three of them in. He searched on ahead, locating a bathroom and flipped on the light. Turning the shower on full blast he yelled out for Sherlock. _

_ Still clutching Y/N to him, he climbed in the shower, shoes, clothes and all, sitting with his back against the wall and cradling her as the hot water stream over them. John peeled off the layers of coats and rubbed her frozen skin through her clothes, trying to work circulation back in. _

_ The bathroom began to fill with steam and Y/N began to groan in pain as the she warmed up. _

_ “It’s stings,” she whimpered and Sherlock looked at John, his face a mixture of relief, concern and helplessness. John gave him a single nod of reassurance. _

_ “Just your blood working its way back into your extremities,” John explained. “You’re going to be just fine.” As he said this, she began to shiver violently and Sherlock held her tighter. “That is totally normal,”John said, trying to sooth both of them. “I’m going to call an ambulance, she should get checked out, just in case…” He whispered to Sherlock, who nodded, his attention still fixated on Y/N. John left the room, leaving them alone with only the sound of the rushing water. _

_ “Yyyoooouuu mmmmust bbbbbeee sooooo mmmmmadddd atttt meeee,” she chattered. Sherlock tried to suppress a smile and failed. He should be mad, irate even, but he felt only relief. _

_ “More than mad,” he informed her. “I am beyond mad. Closer to enraged, actually.” _

_ “Theennnnnnn wwwwwhhyyy aarree yyyyoou sssmmilllling?” She teased. _

_ “It’s the rage,” he replied, “It’s making me delirious.” She let out a deep sigh and nestled in closer to him, her head resting on his chest and he looked down at her. Her skin was a pale, eerie white color and her lips were blue, but to him, she looked absolutely beautiful. He’d almost lost her, almost succeeded in chasing her away for good. _

_ If Y/N was a woman who apologized, now would have been a perfect time, but neither of them tried to fool themselves into thinking this was a possibility. So instead, he squeezed her just a little bit tighter and if she wasn’t shivering so hard, she might have noticed. _

* * *

 

There was about three or four blissful seconds before you opened your eyes when you had forgotten about the previous night and where you were currently. But when one of the machines you were wired to beeped, it all came flooding back. Your lids snap open and you look around your hospital room, eyes coming to a stop on a tall man, sleeping all scrunched up in a terrible hospital chair, looking just adorable in the pale green scrubs he’d had to put on after soaking his clothes last night with you in the shower.

You wonder if you were the first woman Sherlock had taken into a shower then you wonder where that thought had even come from.

As if he could somehow feel your attention on him, he is suddenly awake and you wonder how the hell he does that.

“Nice jammies,” you say and instantly regret speaking. Your throat is raw and stinging from screaming your brains out last night.

“Nice voice,” he retorts and you have to smile.

“Sexy, huh,” you say.

“Personally, I’d prefer it if you were completely mute,” he answers, standing and stretching. As he does this, the scrub top rides up and you see a strip of skin, edges of his abdominal  muscles and a small trail of dark hair running from his naval under the waistband of his pants. Something stirs inside of you and you quickly look away. 

“When can I leave?” You croke. 

“Depends,” he says, padding over to your bedside. “On whether you’re done playing detective by yourself.” You look down at your bandaged hands, ashamed. 

“I am done,” you promise. “I do want to help you, I want to work this case like…”

“Like we used to?” He finished for you. You nod. “Then there has to be some ground rules. Number one: You share everything.”

“You have to share everything, too,” you add.

“No, that’s not a ground rule,” he says shaking his head. You gape at him.

“Why is it OK for you to have secrets?” You cry and your throat immediately punishes you for it. You reach for a cup of water and take a sip and it burns the whole way down. 

“It just is,” he replies. “Do you agree to ground rule one?” You glare at him for a long time before you finally nod.

“Right then,” he says, pleased. “Number two, John or I or both of us go everywhere you go.”

“To work?” You whisper, feeling your irritation growing.

“One of us will accompany you each way,” he says. You throw your hands up in defeat and nod again.

“Number three,” he continues. “You will do exactly as I say…”

“God Damn it Sherlock,” you seethe.

“All or nothing, dear Y/N,” he says, his tone indicating he meant business. 

“Fine,” you mutter through clenched teeth.

“Fantastic,” he declares, clasping his hands together in front of him. He pulls up a chair next to your bed and hefts up the file box from the cellar that you hadn’t noticed until now. “You weren’t the only interesting thing we found down there last night,” he explains. You raise one eyebrow at his use of the word “interesting” as he begins to pull out pages of reports, graphs and blueprints.

“What is it?” You ask, taking the pages gingerly in your battered hands.

“The other half of the plans Andrews tried to sell,” he explains. “The part he finished.”

“Why in the world did he leave them?” You ask, glancing over at Sherlock. He was leaning forward, his face so close to yours that you could make out the beginnings of a scruffy beard appearing on his jaw. You ache to reach out and brush your fingertips over it.

“He wants to throw us off his trail,” Sherlock explains. “He’s saying ‘here you go, take it back, I don't want to play anymore, you got me’.”

“He’s hoping we will stop looking, he thinks we assume that this is all he’s taken,” you reply, catching on. “And it very well could be.”

“Highly unlikely,” he says with a shake of his head. “Walsh is still in jail with his transfer looming. He needs to make a sale soon, he needs that money to get Walsh out of the country.” You frown. 

“We need to analyze those snaps you took,” you say. “We need to come up with some keywords to use to intercept any chatter on the black market.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says, returning the files to the box. 

John arrives not too long afterwards, with a set of clothes for you each. You are relieved to be discharged with a clean bill of health and some pain medication for your mangled hands and bruised shoulder.

Back at Baker Street you each take a stack of the screen shot Sherlock had printed up and scour them, circling keywords with red markers. You fumble a bit due to your bandages but you all are able to compile a thorough list of words that would pop up if Andrews tries to sell any of the plans. Sherlock emails the list to his contact and now all there is to do is wait.

Over the next few days, life returns to normal. You have basically moved into John’s old room now and you know you will be there until this case is solved. One evening when you return home from work, escorted by John, you find a huge map of London tacked to the wall in the living room.

“All possible routes for Walsh’s transfer from Belmarsh Prison to Coldingley Prison,” Sherlock explains, pointing to a web of red lines drawn over the roadways. “Well not all possible, just the probable ones.”

“So all we need to do is figure out which route they are going to take and the exact spot where Walsh’s crew plans to overtake the prison transport,” John said in a sarcastic tone.

“Just let me think,” Sherlock says, crossing his arms over his chest and narrowing his gaze at the map. 

“Mind palace?” John asks, but Sherlock doesn't answer. In fact, he doesn’t even acknowledge him. John sighs. “Come on, let’s go grab a bite to eat. He will be here a while.”

You and John end up having a lovely dinner and you are more than a bit worried when you return home and find Sherlock standing in the exact same place.

“Just leave him be,” John explains, not looking phased in the least. “He is perfectly fine, well, fine for him, anyway. Look,” he says, walking over and waving his hand in front of Sherlocks’ face. The taller man didn't flinch. Only a little mollified, you bid John good-night, lock up and ready for bed. Despite John’s lack of concern, you are not sure that Sherlock is alright. You drag your pillow and a blanket to the couch and dim the lights, wanting to be close in case the poor man collapses or something. You watch him for a long while, trying to reconcile this man who stood here before you with the man you’d known before.

You’d taken a year off after university, needing answers about your father before you could move on with your life. You’d gone to Sherlock and he’d been intrigued, both with the case and with you. He was slightly older, smart, handsome and witty and in spite of his lesser appealing qualities, it hadn’t taken long for you to fall for him. He’d made it clear from the beginning where he stood on love and sentiment. You’d tried desperately to keep your feelings as reigned in a possible, as you both had a job to do, but they were always there. They were still there. Damn them. 

Back then, he wasn’t cruel or harsh like he was now. He was rude and arrogant and condescending, yes, but at the same time, he had a certain tenderness he reserved for you. You saw a glimpse of it in the hospital room this morning and you wondered where it had come from.

You weren't sure when you dozed off or how long you’d been asleep, but something jars you from your slumber. A weird sort of squeaking sound. You sit up on the couch and look around, finally seeing Sherlock with a big black Sharpie, inking out a path on the map, the marker making an annoying squealing sound as he dragged the tip across the paper.

“You’ve narrowed it down to just one?” You asked, surprised although by now you probably shouldn’t be.

“Yes, it meets all the criteria for both the prison transfer and the jail break,” Sherlock explained. “It’s the only one that works.”

“So where do they set the trap?” You ask, standing and joining him at the map. He leans forward and makes a small X.

“Right here,” he says, tapping it again for effect.

 

The next day, the three of you travel the route from Belmarsh, where Walsh is currently being kept to Coldingley, where he is being transferred to. You pull off the road after a sharp bend and all get out of the car. It’s heavily wooded here, nothing but forest on either side of the road. 

“They hide here,” Sherlock explains. “Drivers can't see anything on the other side of the bend.”

“They’ll have a squad car out front,” you point out. “It will see a suspicious vehicle parked on the side of the road and stop the transport.”

“Ah, correct,” SHerlock says but you know from his tone he really means “wrong.” “A car they will see, but an ATV can hidden in the woods.” He sets off towards the forest and you and John follow him. Not very far from the road, you stumble upon what appears to be a track for  off-road vehicles. 

“Four wheelers?”  You ask and Sherlock nods, pleased with himself.

“This trail runs all the way to a small air strip, about 15 km from here,” he says.  “They fly him out there.”

“Brilliant,” John says. “Can we get back to the car now, our friend here just recently had a terrible experience with hypothermia and I don’t think she should be out in this weather.” 

“I’m alright,” you insist, but turn to follow them out anyway.  As you do, the toe of your boot catches on a frozen root and you pitch forward, the ground rushing up at you. You feel a strong arm catch you around your middle and haul you back up. You look up to see Sherlock with an amused twinkle in his eye. He waits for you to steady yourself, his arm still securely draped about your waist. You hold his gaze a moment longer than necessary, a million thoughts and memories running through your mind, every single one of them having to do with his lips. 

“Thanks,” you say at last and he lets you go without a word. Maybe he was thinking about your lips, too. You smile and shake your head as you walk on, wondering at what point you turned into crazy person. Sherlock Holmes’ mind was filled with an infinite number of things and you were pretty sure your lips were NOT on that list. 


	6. Ch 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets a little smutty towards the end, thanks to the amazingly talented C. Ford! Check her out at   
> www.221b-cfordwrites.tumblr.com  
> Enjoy!

Walsh’s transfer was still several days away and there had been no hits on the search that was running on weapon sales.

Work was particularly hellish with one of your labs hitting major snag that would set the project back weeks, maybe even months. When it's finally quitting time, you look up to see Sherlock standing in your office doorway, tonight's escort home. 

“You drew the short straw tonight?” You ask, gathering up your things.

“John had some Christmas shopping nonsense to do with Mary,” he explains.

“Well, it’s your lucky day,” you smile up at him. “I need a drink and since I’m not allowed to go anywhere alone, you’re buying. Come on, Holmes.” You don’t wait for him to answer as you push past him and head out.

You grab a booth at a pub not too far from Baker Street and order a glass of Chardonnay. Sherlock orders a Woodford Reserve on the rocks, surprising you. You drink your first glass rather quickly and feel a warmth start to spread through your veins. You spend exactly one second lamenting the fact that you skipped lunch before you order a second.

Small talk is painful at first, it being a skill that Sherlock never quite honed. You two discuss your plans for Christmas. You answer that you have none and he explains he’s been invited to John and Mary’s. He then asks you how your wine is, you tell him him it’s quite good and that it’s getting the job done. He wants to know why work was so terrible and you tell him you can’t answer that.

Sherlock is nursing his bourbon and you are at the end of your second glass when you notice Thomas, your ex-fiance, has entered this very pub, a drop dead gorgeous blonde on his arm. Sherlock picks up on your change in posture immediately, following your line of sight, analyzing the look of panic on your face.

“Your Ex?” He asks and you nod.

“Shit, fuck, shit,” you curse quietly, “He’s coming over here.” Without thinking, you shift closer to Sherlock.

“Y/N, how are you?” Thomas says cordially.

“I’m great, just great, how about you?” You reply, plastering a smile on your face.

“Fantastic,” he says smugly, turning to his date, “This is Ana, Ana, this an old friend, Y/N L/N.” He turns to Sherlock. “And you are?”

“This is Sherlock,” you say quickly, “He’s my --”

“Boyfriend,” Sherlock interjects, extending his hand. Thomas’s eye grow wide as he shakes hands. “Nice to meet you.” You suppress your own surprise and instead smile up at Sherlock adoringly. 

“Well, it’s good to see you so happy,” Thomas says, the smugness gone from his voice. “I hope you have a happy Christmas.”

“You too,” you say as they turn to leave. You reach for Sherlock’s bourbon and drain it.

“Let’s go,” you say, reaching for your purse.

“No,” Sherlock says, grabbing your wrist and tugging you back into the booth. “You are not leaving until they do.”

“Why? They could be here all night,” you whine. 

“No, one drink,” he says. “She’s dressed for dinner and he’s going to want to sleep with her to make himself feel better about the fact that you’ve moved on.” You laugh and shake your head and Sherlock calls for another glass of Chardonnay for you.

“He never saw it coming,” you sigh once the waitress drops off your drink. Sherlock doesn’t speak, but waits for you to continue. “The date was approaching and I realized I was dreading it all. The planning, the wedding, being married. I stayed up all night, just sitting next to him in bed, trying to figure out what to say. I woke him up early and I had this whole speech planned out, but the first words out of my mouth were ‘I don’t want to get married’.” You pause and take a big sip of wine. “He tried to talk me into staying. Said we could postpone the wedding, slow things down, take a break. I finally told him that I wasn’t in love with him and that pissed him off. He said a lot of hurtful things, packed his belongings, took my ring back and left.”

“He’ll be fine,” Sherlock says, as if Thomas had merely stubbed a toe and not had his heart ripped out. He looks over to you. “You will, too.”

“A few more of these and I sure will,” you say, tipping your glass towards him.

Sherlock was right, they only stayed for one drink, but Ana must have noticed all the glances Thomas gave your way because when they did leave, it didn’t seem like they were still on for dinner or sex.

“He hates me,” you say once they leave.

“He’s still in love with you,” Sherlock replies. You have no words, so you sip your wine. You feel badly for Thomas, knowing full well what it’s like to care for someone that doesn’t reciprocate your feelings.

“Thank you, for saying your my…. You know,” you say at last. 

“Don’t mention it,” he replies and you want to assure him that you won’t mention it, ever again.

* * *

_ After Y/N has finished drinking away her horrible day, the two set off to Baker Street. She is chattering on, the wine having loosened her up enough where she’s abandoned the reserved persona she occupies around Sherlock and he is secretly pleased. He knows he is responsible for keeping their relationship strained and slightly uncomfortable and that it’s necessary to keep his distance.  _

_ The first time they’d met, she’d been chattered on in much the same way, hurrying to get her story out, but that time it had been fueled by nerves and excitement, not alcohol. The officer assigned to investigate the death of Y/N’s father had come up empty. He’d then referred Y/N to Sherlock and she’d shown up to their meeting with a thick file folder and a plea. _

_ She was bright and a quick study who had multiple job offers right out of college. Ministry of Defense, Ministry of Justice, Attorney General’s Office. She’d pushed them all off, committed to solving this mystery. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment when she’d stopped being a client and started being a partner… a friend. Back then, he’d imagined that they’d just go on doing this. They’d solve her case, she’d take her high paying, high powered government job and continue help him on the side. But emotions got in the way, made everything messy, as they usually do and he’d been forced to end things. He’d spent the last seven years absolutely sure that things were better this way and it had taken her a matter of days to make him call everything back into question. _

_ They arrived back at Baker Street and shook off the cold. He followed her upstairs and into the flat. He paused, unwrapping his scarf and removing his coat and hanging them both. He could feel her eyes on him before he even turned around. _

_ “Why did you leave, Sherlock?” she asked. He let out an exasperated sigh. _

_ “Can we not do this, please?” he replied, his tone impatient. _

_ “Just tell me,” she said, evenly. She wasn’t upset or emotional, just curious. “I deserve to know what I did.” _

_ “What makes you think it was something you did?” he asked, leveling his gaze at her. _

_ “Wasn’t it? I mean, you left in the night. I woke up and you were gone. When I got back to London, everything was different,” she recalled, taking a step towards him. “It’s been seven years. I don’t want to wonder anymore.” He looked at her, an unfamiliar ache in his chest.  _

_ “All this time, you’ve been making the mistake of assuming that I wanted to leave,” he said after several long moments. She squinted at him. _

_ “Then why did you leave, Sherlock?” she asked, her voice finally breaking. _

_ “There are things at play that you don’t understand,” he replied. “Things at play even back then.” She took a few steps towards him. _

_ “Then help me understand, please,” she whispered, tears starting to form in her eyes. _

_ “No,” he said simply, turning away from her, needing to be done with this conversation. She closed the gap between them, reaching out and grabbing his arm to try to keep him from walking away again. _

_ “Sherlock, you’re breaking my heart,” she cried, tears running down her cheeks. “If it wasn’t me, tell me what it was! If you didn’t want to leave, at least tell me why you did!” He spun on her, fire in his eyes. He took a step towards her, then another, backing her up against the wall. He leaned in close, placing a palm on the wall on either side of her head. _

_ “I left to protect you, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and deep and she could feel it resonating in her own chest. “And it was the hardest thing I have ever done.” She looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyes, confusion etched on her features. He pushed himself away, turning his back on her, running one hand through his hair and then suddenly, he spun back, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. She tasted like wine and salty tears and the ache in his chest grew stronger. She placed both hands on his chest and gently pushed him away as tears streamed down her cheeks. Unable to help himself, he reached up and brushed them away with his thumbs. _

_ “I want answers,” she sniffed. “Not kisses.” _

_ “I can’t give them to you right now Y/N,” He said, his voice firm as he regained a hold of himself. “Maybe someday, but not now.” She turned, ducking away from him and retreating to her bedroom, she closed the door behind her.  _

_ Rubbing his face with both hands, he crossed the room to his chair and sank down, suddenly wearier than he’d been in a long time. He was not a man that was accustomed to an internal battle of wills. He felt one feeling at a time and usually that feeling was certainty. He hadn’t felt certain about much since he’d walked into Y/N’s office. It was exhausting wanting her all the time while simultaneously trying to keep her away. His mind was at war with his heart and he was totally unsure of which would prevail.  _

* * *

You sit on the edge of your bed for a long while, trying to get your tears to stop. Sherlock’s unexpected and ill-timed kiss had left you feeling so many emotions all at once. Anger, sadness, regret, hurt, love, lust… need. You wanted answers, yes, but you also wanted him. 

You wipe your tears with the heels of your hand and decide to just call it a night. Kicking your shoes off  you strip down to your bra and panties. You tie your dressing gown around yourself and leave your room, walking towards the bathroom to wash up. As you cross the living room, you see Sherlock sitting low in his chair, legs crossed, hands wrapped over the edge of the armrests. He glances up at you and your eyes meet. He is the flame and you are the moth. It has always been like this, you’ve always danced around each other. You are done dancing, you decide. The music has stopped. You course correct and head towards him, coming to a stop directly in front of him. 

He’s looking up at you and you catch yourself trying to read him before you just give up. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. 

“I changed my mind about those kisses,” you whisper at last. You wait for a biting comment that dismisses you from the room, but instead, he leans forward slightly, moving the tips of his long fingers to the backs of your knees. The slightest bit of pressure there beckons you forward, onto the chair, one knee on either side of him, straddling his lap. His hands move again, palms resting on your bare thighs just above your knees. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your nerve endings are ignited, every inch of you that is touching him is burning with desire. Slowly, so painfully slow, he slides his palms up your thighs, stopping as his fingers brush the hem of your dressing gown.

He glances up at you, his crystal clear blue-green eyes locked onto yours. His expression is serious and you notice that you’ve stopped breathing. He’s fighting with himself, you realize. Fighting against whatever promise he made to himself years ago and against what he wants now. He reaches for the sash of your robe and slowly undoes it. It falls open, sliding down your arms and pooling on the ground behind you. Sherlock he takes in the sight of you, on his lap, in your lacy pale pink bra and panties. His eyes travel over your flushed face, down your throat, over your breasts, across your stomach down to where is hands have come to rest on your hips.

He grips you tightly, fingertips pressing into your flesh and your heart skitters in your chest. Lifting you, he stands suddenly and carries you to the couch. He lays you down, and you sink into cool, creamy leather. He lowers himself down on top of you, propped up on his elbows holding most of his weight off of you. You reach up and wrap your hand around the back of his neck, wanting him closer, not caring if he crushes you.

You guide his lips to yours and exalt in the feeling of his tongue sliding over yours. You weave your fingers into his curls and you are rewarded with the softest moan. This is what you have been waiting for, this is what you’ve ached for for seven long years.

You reach down between the two of you and tug on his shirt, untucking it and your fingertips brush against his skin. He pushes himself up, hurriedly undoing the buttons and discarding the garment somewhere behind him. It’s your turn to drink him in. He is so incredibly sexy, creamy skin stretched over lean muscle. Your eyes travel upwards, over his firm stomach, defined chest, long neck and when you reach his face you are pleased to see a hint of a smirk forming on his perfect bow shaped mouth. Emboldened, you reach for his belt and slowly unbuckle it, sliding it from the belt loops and dropping it loudly to the floor.   

Taking over, he sheds the trousers until you are both only in your underwear. He lowers himself back down to you and miss him like he’s been away for hours instead of a few seconds. He kisses you and it’s more demanding this time, as if his resolve had been completely discarded along with his clothes. His hands slip beneath you and to your surprise, deftly unclips your bra, sliding the straps down over your shoulder and your bra joins the rest of the clothes on the floor. Taking matters into your own hands, you arch your back and wiggle out of your panties before hooking your thumbs into his boxers and tossing those aside as well. He’s hard and smooth and hot and you’ve never wanted anything more in your entire life. Your legs are shaking as he reaches down and hooks your leg up over his hip. There is no foreplay and you are grateful. You’ve had seven years of foreplay and you need him now.

You bite your lip to stifle a cry and then, he is inside you. His eyes close for a brief second and he assumes an excruciatingly slow rhythm. It’s wonderful and torturous at the same time.

“Sherlock,” you whisper and he blinks down at you. You realize he hasn’t said one word since you entered the living room. “Tell me what you’re thinking…” He grimaces and shakes his head. You reach up and lay her hand hand on his cheek. “Please…”

“I…” he starts as he continues to gyrate his hips, moving in and out of you, “I can’t… I don’t…” he was panting but you can still hear the pain in his words. You press your lips to his, slow and gentle. He moans into the kiss and it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted. He pulls away and presses his forehead to yours. You don’t need him to speak, he is already telling you everything.

Almost imperceptibly he starts to pick up his pace and your hips rise to meet his. You feel your entire body start to tingle and your fingernails scrabble across his back. You can tell he is close too and you desperately want to finish with him. His pace becomes erratic and finally he can’t sustain it anymore. With one final grunt, he has your bodies move in perfect sync as you both find your release. Your toes curl in the overwhelming sensation, your back arching as Sherlock continues to move within you to ride your orgasm. As he spills himself inside you, you clench around him, whimpering praises and profanities in his ear.  

He collapses against you, burying his face in your neck as you gasp for air, trying to catch your breath. You feel his lips brush the skin of your neck and you shiver, still hyper-sensitive from what he’s just done to you. You giggle and you feel him smile against you.

He rolls you, so you are both on your sides facing each other. He reaches over you and tugs the blanket that is draped over the back of the couch down to cover the both of you. You drape an arm and a leg over him and nestle your head in beneath his chin.

You have no idea what this will look like tomorrow, how this will change things between you and for now, you don’t care. Nothing else exists other than you, wrapped in his arms, and a feeling of contentment that you have never known before.


	7. Ch 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, thank you for waiting so patiently for this. Be aware that when you see Y/F/F/N Y/F/L/N it means "Your father's first name, your father's last name".   
> Again, thank you for reading <3

_ It was already late afternoon and they’d been in the car a long while and they both needed to stretch their legs. This town was beautiful, small, more of a village nestled along the coastline of North Yorkshire. Sherlock got out first, hands deep in his pockets and crossed the small stretch of grass between the road and the cliff side. He effortlessly stepped over the guardrail which was in place to keep careening cars out of the ocean. Y/N checked the GPS one more time before climbing out and joining him. It was windy this close to the water and she struggled to keep her hair out of her eyes. Sherlock was looking off into the distance, squinting at something she couldn’t see from where she stood. Her heart skipped a beat as she was struck again by how handsome he was. He had no idea how women looked at him, how she looked at him. She reached back into the car for her camera, which she had brought to capture clues or evidence that could lead to the truth about her father. She aligned her sights, focusing in on him. He turned and looked at her just as she snapped the picture. _

_ “What are you doing?” He called over the sound of the wind and waves. _

_ “Photo op,” she replied with a smile, stowing the camera. He crossed back over the guardrail and stalked back towards her. _

“ _ Are you ready?” he asked and she knew he didn’t mean to get back into the car. He was asking if she was ready for the answers they’d come all this way to find. She nodded and they climbed back in. _

_ It had been almost a year of searching, grasping at straws when they’d finally found a solid clue. A cheap, plastic keychain with the name “Sanderson Towing and Auto Repair”. It was sheer luck that Y/N had come across it all. She’d been staying at her father’s flat since his remains had been found, burnt to death in a mysterious fire in his car. She’d bumped a file of papers down behind the desk and when she’d moved the piece of furniture away from the wall, she’d found the forgotten keychain amongst the dust and cobwebs. _

_ It wasn’t unusual in and of itself. Just the type of thing a repair shop adds to your keyring when they take a car in for repairs. The only odd thing was that it was located several hours away from where her father worked and lived. That, combined with the fact that his death had occurred in his car, was enough for the two detectives to make the long drive. _

_ They’d each packed a bag, not sure how long they’d need to spend finding answers. They were close, the GPS telling them the mechanic was about a twenty minute drive north from their current location.  _

_ They found it easily enough and parked out front. The sun was beginning to set as they exited the car. A tall, rough looking man covered in black grease smudges walked out from an open garage bay to meet them. His navy blue shirt bore a patch that read “Jim”. _

_ “What can I help you all with today?” he asked.  _

_ “We drove up today for a long weekend,” Y/N explained. “And my car’s making a weird sound!” _

_ “Well, pop the hood and start it up for me,” he said and she did as he asked.  _

_ “Do you have a restroom I could use?” Sherlock asked and Jim gestured to the office area of the garage. He wandered away while Y/N tried to describe the sound it had allegedly made on their drive up. _

_ By the time Sherlock returned, the mechanic had deduced that nothing was wrong and maybe the tires needed some more air. Jim closed the hood and went to fetch the tire pump. _

_ “Anything?” Y/N whispered to Sherlock. _

_ “Lots of old Army memorabilia,” Sherlock replied quietly, “But appears to be a functioning garage. There was a good sized safe tucked in the corner, not sure why an auto shop would need a safe that size though.” He stopped talking as the mechanic approached again with the pump and set to work re-inflating the tires. _

_ “You know, we were just talking,” Y/N started in a seemingly off-handed manner. “I think my father stopped her, oh about, two or three years ago…” she squinted at Sherlock who nodded, confirming the time frame. “Was here on holiday, had some car troubles. He said a nice ex-Army fellow helped him out. His name was Y/F/F/N Y/F/L/N? He was driving a slightly older black Volkswagen Passat?” Jim stopped what he was doing and turned and looked at the pair, squinting as if trying to remember.  _

_ “I can’t say I recall,” he said, looking away from them and back at the tires. “See lots of folks through here.” Y/N sighed and nodded. While they had been watching him finish up his task, the wind had picked up significantly and the air temperature was dropping. “Big storm coming in from the ocean,” he commented. “Heavy rain and winds, they’re saying. Thunderstorms, too. If you have a place to stay tonight, I’d think about heading there now.” He capped the last tire and stood. Y/N offered to pay, but he politely refused. The weather was starting to turn so they thanked him and got back into the car. _

_ “Now what?” Y/N asked Sherlock. She felt frustrated tears stinging the back of her eyes. _

_ “Now we go into town and ask around about ‘Jim’ the mechanic and drop some hints about your father and see if anything turns up.” He paused, knowing how disappointed she was and wanting to comfort her. He cared for her so much it alarmed him and seeing her hurting was actually causing him pain. She swatted away a tear that had escaped her lashes.  _

_ “Hey,” he said, reaching out and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t get discouraged. There’s something here. We will find it.” She sniffed and nodded, starting the car up.  _

_ The sky was starting to grow dark as storm clouds began to gather overhead. A huge flash of lightning split the sky and a few rain drops began to hit the windshield.  _

_ “We should go see about a room at that Inn you found online,” Sherlock said, glancing up at the clouds. Y/N punched in the address on her GPS and set off in the directions its automated voice dictated, still feeling crushed at the dead end they’d met. “I’m not going to give up on this,” Sherlock insisted as if reading her mind. “We will solve this case.” The conviction in his voice made her heart ache. She took her eyes off the road briefly and glanced at him and he offered her a rare smile that chased away the doubt and disappointment she’d felt. She smiled back at him. The one good thing that had come out of her father’s death was it had led her to the man in the passenger seat next to her and for that she was grateful. _

* * *

“Oh for the love--,” a voice bemoans, cutting through the cozy cocoon you’d been nestled asleep in. You feel Sherlock stir beside you and you peek open one eye to see John standing in the living room, hands on his hips, trying to look anywhere but at the two of you. You suppress a giggle. “The couch? Really? The couch? Two perfectly good beds, a shower, a bathtub and you had to pick the couch?” Sherlock doesn’t even open his eyes.

“Don’t you knock?” he asks.

“No. No, I don’t knock,” John says, still flustered. “I will now… now that you two are..are..are… You know what? I will be downstairs at Mrs. Hudson’s until you either adjourn to one of the aforementioned locations or decide to get dressed. Good-bye.” He disappears and you hear his footsteps descend the staircase. You groan, embarrassed, and bury your face into Sherlock’s chest. You’re not ready for this. You’re not ready to be awake, for it to be daylight. You’re not ready to face the aftermath of your night with Sherlock. 

After a moment, he moves, extricating himself from your tangled limbs. He sits up and slides on his boxer briefs and you clutch the blanket around you.

He won’t pull you towards him and tell you what an amazing night it was. He won’t chase you into the shower for round two. He won’t make you tea and toast. He won’t send you cute and flirty text messages throughout the day about how he can’t stop thinking about you. You know this now and you knew it last night, but part of you wishes he would do these things. Or anything that might indicate that he was feeling this the same way you were. But this is just not who he is.

You watch him, waiting to see how he will handle this and praying it won’t sting you too much.

“I’m going to check in with my contact today to see if we got any hits on the keywords,” he says at last and your heart sinks, though you wish it wouldn’t. 

“What can I do?” you ask, forcing your voice to be calm, steady and nonchalant. 

“Lestrade finally got his hands on the box of items found in Andrews car,” he replies. “You and John can head over to Scotland Yard and see if there is anything of interest.” You nod, even though he can’t see it with his back to you. He runs his hands back and forth through his hair, ruffling his curls in the most adorable way before he stands and stretches. You sit up and gather the blanket around you, heading towards your room. You push the door open as Sherlock speaks your name. You turn around and look at him expectantly.

“Do you want some tea?” he asks and you use every ounce of willpower you have to keep a smile off your face.

“Yes, but I can make it myself, in a minute,” you reply and he almost looks relieved. You shut yourself in your room and collapse onto the bed, grinning like an idiot. 

When you rejoin Sherlock in the living room, you are both fully dressed and John is there, but he is still having a hard time looking you in the eye.

Sherlock is pulling his coat on to head out and you want to kiss him goodbye, hold him for one short second before you all break into factions for the day.

“I’ve instructed John that you are to meet Lestrade at Scotland Yard,” he explains as he wraps his scarf around his neck. “I will phone you if I find anything out about our keyword search.” You nod and look to John, who is suddenly very interested in a pile of junk mail on the counter.

“We will meet back here later and regroup,” he says, placing his hand on the door knob. He looks at you, his expression revealing nothing, as usual. You smile at him and he’s gone, out the door, bounding down the stairs. You sigh in disappointment, though you had no delusions that this interaction would have gone any differently.

“Scotland Yard, then?” you say to John.

“Let’s go,” he says and you both grab your jackets and head out. 

The ride to Scotland yard is awkward at best and you are about halfway there when you decide you can’t take it anymore.

“I am so sorry you had to see that,” you say and instantly know this was the wrong thing to do as it causes to John wince and squirm slightly.

“It’s fine, I’m glad you two worked your stuff out,” he said with a tight smile. You sigh.

“I don’t know about that,” you mutter, thinking back to this morning’s slightly disappointing interaction. Just then your phone buzzes in your hand and you glance down at the screen. A text from Sherlock.

**_\--Dinner tonight?_ **

Smiling, you quickly type back “Yes” and you allow yourself to wonder if maybe you both had actually worked all your stuff out.

* * *

_ It’s dark by the time they reach the Inn. Driving was slow going, the rain coming down so hard that the wipers could barely keep up. Y/N parked the car on the street and the two dashed up the long sidewalk to the Inn, the driving rain stinging their faces. They reached the door for the front office and Sherlock yanked on the knob, but the door didn’t budge. _

_ “Back in 10 minutes,” Y/N read, pointing to a small sign hung in the window to their left. They spun around and dashed back to the car, each trying a handle and finding it locked. Y/N patted her front pockets, then her back, then her coat pockets before cursing out a long stream of expletives.  _

_ “I locked them in the bloody car!” She exclaimed. Sherlock hurriedly tried each door handle, moving around the rear of the car until he was standing beside her. They peered inside and could see the keys on the driver’s seat. _

_ She threw her head back and laughed at the precipitation that was relentlessly pelting them. Rainwater ran down her face and off her chin. He laughed aloud, too, for there was nothing else to be done. They looked up and down the empty street. Not another soul to be seen and everything else on the lane was closed up tight for the night. _

_ “Looks like we wait,” he said. “Let’s duck under the awning.” He took her hand and pulled her back to the in, both of them huddled together under the small awning that covered the stoop of the Inn. She shivered slightly, soaked to the bone, as was he. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her close, his first instinct to try to warm her. She wrapped her arms around his waist and she stared up at him, still smiling. Even dripping wet and cold she was lovely and he felt something awaken deep inside of him. _

_ He was done fighting this. They’d worked so long and so hard and they’d come so far. He’d tried his best to resist this pull, but he wanted her. He wanted her more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. He was excited and scared but he was more sure of this than he’d ever been about anything and Sherlock was a man of many certainties.  _

_ The smile on her face faded as she registered the intensity and meaning of his gaze. He brought his hands up to cup her chin and lowered his head, brushing his lips against hers. She let out a small whimper as she finally received the kiss she’d been waiting on for so long. She clutched at him desperately and he responded by deepening their kiss, the sound of raindrops providing the perfect soundtrack to a perfect first kiss.  _

_ Suddenly, the light above them flickered on and they jumped apart as the Inn door opened to them. _

_ “Oh my! I only stepped away for a moment! You’re drenched!” a portly middle aged woman they assumed was the innkeeper cried. “Come in, come in.” They dashed inside out of the rain. Their wet shoes squishing on the carpet, they followed her to the front desk to check in. The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Bresnahan.  _

_ “Would you mind phoning a tow truck? I’ve just locked my keys in the car,” Y/N asked Mrs. Bresnahan as she pulled out her registration book. _

_ “Not at all!” she smiled. “So two rooms?” she asked. Y/N chewed her lip and looked up at Sherlock. _

_ “One room, I think,” he replied and the innkeeper handed him one key. He signed the register whilst she phoned someone to come and jimmy their lock open. _

_ She grabbed them an extra stack of towels and led them up to the room. It was small but cozy with an adjoining bathroom and a queen sized bed centered on the wall. _

_ “I’ll phone when the tow truck arrives then,” Mrs. Bresnahan said, excusing herself. The door shut behind her and Y/N and Sherlock turned and looked at each other, neither speaking right away. Outside, the wind was whipping against the building and the rain was smacking hard against the window panes. Anticipation was building rapidly inside Y/N but she was terrified to move too quickly, lest she spook Sherlock and cause him to change his mind. She waited for him to make the first move. _

_ He stepped toward her and reached out his hand, tucking a damp piece of hair behind her ear. This would not be a casual encounter. This would change everything between them, alter their futures and bind them together. He’d never wanted such a thing, not until this very moment. He drew her to him with an arm about her waist and he reveled in the way she melted against him. She angled her lips up to him and he met her with a kiss that shared all of that with her. Still kissing, he moved them back towards the bed, stopping when the backs of her thighs hit the edge of the mattress. She broke away, reaching down and peeling off her wet t-shirt, she tossed it to the floor. Sherlock’s hands moved to his own shirt, but were halted by the shrill ring of the telephone. With a curse, he moved to answer it. _

_ “Hello, dear, there was a tow truck in the area, they are here now, waiting for you,” Mrs. Bresnahan informed him.  Sherlock thanked her and hung up. _

_ “I swear that woman has a sixth sense when it comes to interrupting us,” Y/N joked. “Do you want me to come down with you?” _

_ “No. Wait here, have a bath, warm up, I will be back soon,” he said, bending and kissing her again. _

_ “Hurry,” she murmured, smiling up at him. He nodded once then turned to leave, pulling on his still wet coat back over his still wet clothes. He thought of her, stripping off the rest of her clothing and climbing into a hot bath. Maybe he’d join her, depending on how long the tow truck driver took to jimmy the lock open. Or maybe he’d just let her warm him up in bed after.  _

_ It was still pouring when he stepped back outside. His thoughts still mostly on all the ways he planned on sharing Y/N’s body heat, it took him a moment to see that the car was suspending off the ground behind the tow truck. The driver, wearing a bright orange mack, was standing beside it. _

_ “We just need the door unlocked,” Sherlock called over the sound of the truck’s motor, the wind and the rain. As he drew closer to the man, he recognized him as ‘Jim’ from the garage they’d snooped around at earlier. His eyes flew to the name printed on the side of the tow truck. “Sanderson towing and auto repair”. Sherlock looked back to Jim, who slowly pulled his hand from his coat pocket and pointed a gun at him. _

_ “Get in,” he said. “We’re going for a little ride.”  _


	8. Ch 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I apologize for the long delay between updates. As some of you know, my husband was in an accident and severely injured and I was forced to take a break to focus on my family. I am happy to report that he is doing amazing and will make a full recovery.  
> Secondly, I want to thank you all who took the time to reach out to me with well wishes. I was floored by the support you all gave me, confirming my suspicions that this fandom is the best and that my followers are the actually greatest people on earth.  
> Finally, I need to thank my beta/love of my life C. who not only helped me overcome a potential plot flaw, but had such an amazing solution that I feel the need to give her credit (see end notes). She is one of the most talented writers I've ever "met" and I am beyond psyched to have her as my friend and beta-extraordinaire. Check out her incredible works at http://cfordwrites.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thank you all, as always, for reading and for being extra special.  
> Love -Sarah

 

“Did this man not ever clean out his car?” John asked in disgust from the other side of the table. You and he were set up in an empty interrogation room, you at one end of a long table, John at the other, and a big evidence box between you. 

Andrews had clearly not practice the same neat and tidy organization he employed in his lab outside of work. His car was filled with trash, junk, random articles of clothing. There were empty ketchup packets, empty coffee cups, fast food bags, candy wrappers, receipts and papers of all kinds. You and John had decided to sort the contents into piles of like items and you were about halfway to the bottom of the box.

John was sorting receipts in order of establishment. Starbucks, Pret, McDonalds, Yo!Sushi and the like. You were sorting gas station receipts by location and you wished like hell Sherlock was here to infer some sort of pattern or connection.

You reached into the box again and pulled out a handful of junk, placing the contents in front of you. A glove, an empty Pret breakfast sandwich wrapper, a chopstick, some spare change and several receipts. You pulled the food related ones out and handed them to John. As your pile grew smaller, something silver caught your eye. Not spare change, you realized as you reached for it. A keychain.

Your heart skipped a beat, then began to pound in earnest as you turned it over in your hands. “Sanderson Towing and Auto Repair”. You read it again and again and again, as if you're tired, distracted eyes might be placing tricks on you.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” John asked. You look up at him and you see a concerned expression on his face. “You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“This keychain…” You breathe, “I’ve seen it before.” You hand it to him and he eyes it, reads the name and glances back at you, his expression blank. “We have to go to my flat right now. I will explain on the way,” you say, pocketing the key chain, grabbing your coat and purse and dashing out of the room.

You tell John the story on the short cab ride to your apartment. You’d touched on the tale briefly, over dinner at Speedy’s on that first night Sherlock Holmes strode back into your life. Now, you tell him more about your father, who had worked his whole life as a mid-level bank manager at a local branch. You tell him how the police had labeled the case a “carjacking gone bad” and closed it as an unsolved murder. How one detective had been kind enough to sit you down and tell you that even though there was nothing to go on, no leads, no evidence, no suspects, that a local man who called himself a “Consulting Detective” might be able to help you find some answers. 

Finally, as the cab pulled up in front of your building, you tell him about “Sanderson Towing and Auto Repair” and the night Sherlock abandoned you. You let yourself into the apartment you’d called home for the past few years and look around. You’ve only been there to grab clothes a few times in the past few weeks and the place seemed unfamiliar and unwelcoming. You hurry into your bedroom, dive onto the rug flat on your stomach, and pull out a worn, tattered cardboard box from underneath your bed. You place in carefully in John’s arms and both hurry back to the waiting cab, fleeing to the warm, welcoming, cozy confines of 221B Baker Street.

* * *

  
_ Jim pulled up in front of the same garage Sherlock and Y/N had visited earlier. They exited the tow truck, Jim keeping the gun trained on him the entire time. They hurried inside through one of the open garage bays and Jim nodded in the direction of the office.  _

_ It looked like any other mechanic’s office, papers piled everywhere, random greasy car parts dotting each surface, old, beat up and stained furniture.  _

_ “Have a seat,” Jim said, rounding his desk and sitting in an ancient desk chair that squeaked as it rocked back under the weight of him. Sherlock’s eyes scanned the paperwork on the desk as he sat in a worn,  wooden chair across from Jim. “We need to have a chat, the two of us,” he started. _

_ “About how you erase people?” Sherlock offered. Jim’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s what you really do here, isn’t it?” Jim’s expression changed again, this time his eyes narrowing to slits. _

_ “You figured out more than I thought you would,” he said, an odd note of respect in his tone. _

_ “Not really,” Sherlock replied. “You just told me all that I needed to know. Well, that and the multiple passport applications, the birth certificate and the obituary I can see peeking out from under all your invoices and auto part receipts on your desk.” _

_ “Very good, Mr. Holmes,” Jim said. He held up his hand and with a flick of his wrist, he produced a silver coin, seemingly out of nowhere. He rolled the coin back and forth other the tops of his knuckles as he spoke. “Yes, we are in the business of helping folks find their way out of sticky situations. But we prefer the term “vanish” here. And just like you, we are very, very good at what we do.” With another flick of the wrist, the coin was gone. Jim opened his hand, showing Sherlock that it held no coin. _

_ “Vanish?” Sherlock scoffed. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” _

_ “A touch perhaps, but we deal in drama,” the mechanic smirked. “Old fashioned sleight of hand… misdirection, if you will.” He clapped his hands together and the coin returned, this time, rolling over the knuckles of the opposite hand. _

_ “So while the police and Scotland Yard are running around looking for a vandal or carjacker turned arsonist, you say a few magic words and viola! A man vanishes?” _

_ “Into thin air,” Jim nodded, snapping his fingers and making the coin vanish again, “Like the magicians of old.” _

_ “And Y/N’s father? Another rabbit in your hat?” Sherlock guessed.  _

_ “That is what I wanted to talk to you about,” Jim said, turning to the large safe behind him. _

_ He spun the dial back and forth then back again before hefting the large door open. Inside, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the butt of a handgun, several passports and a few stacks of cash in varying currencies. “The people who financed Mr. Y/L/N’s escape were very… persuasive. They wanted to ensure that the good banker stayed hidden until the end of his days. So they were less than pleased when his ambitious daughter wouldn't let his death go.” He turned back to Sherlock and dropped a large, white envelope in front of him. Sherlock reached for it and opened the flap at the top, tipping it so that a stack of full page, glossy black and white photos slid out into his waiting hand. While he flipped through them, Jim produced a cigar and lit it, puffing away and making the tip glow an angry red. _

_ The top picture was of Sherlock and Y/N standing outside of his Battersea flat. He could tell it was Y/N by the jacket she was wearing and the big, bulky purse she always carried, but those were really the only identifying features left to him since the image of her face had been burned out with what appeared to be a lit cigar. The same circumference apparently the same size as the one his new mechanic friend was currently enjoying. _

_ He flipped through the photos, some included him, most did not. Y/N at the market, leaving her flat, at a gas station, leaving the library, eating lunch with a group of girls. In each one, her face had been obliterated, the edges around the gaping holes brown and sticky, curled inward. The final photo shook him to his core. It had been taken inside her flat, Sherlock recognized the awful plaid pattern of her couch. She was curled up, covered in a blanket and without seeing her face, he could only assume that she was asleep, which was the only way the photographer would have been able to get that close to her. _

_ “Anywhere, anytime,” Jim said, eyeing Sherlock from across the desk. “We can get to her and we will get to her. And unless you both drop this case tonight, when we make her vanish, she will not reappear.” Sherlock swallowed hard, and let the photos and the envelope fall back to Jim’s desk. _

_ “And if I agree to end the investigation, you’re just going to let me go, knowing about your magic show?” _

_ “Yup,” Jim replied. “You’re in love with the girl.” As he said this, he reached forward and shuffled through the pictures, pulling one up and setting it on top. It was of the two of them, Y/N and Sherlock, and in the photo, Sherlock was gazing at the hole where Y/N’s face should have been. The nefarious photographer had done an incredible job of capturing a tender moment between the two and any fool could plainly see all of Sherlock's emotions etched upon his face. “You’re going to convince her that there is no case and she’s going to give up and you two can live out the rest of your lives together.” He did not like to admit defeat. He didn’t like to walk away from an interesting case and this case just got even more interesting. But Jim was right, he loved Y/N and he’d do anything to keep her safe. Sherlock nodded slowly. _

_ “Fine,” he said as he stood. “It’s done. Take me back now.” Jim smiled and grabbed the keys to the tow truck and a pen. Bending, he jotted something down on a piece of paper from the messy desk and handed it to Sherlock. _

_ “Your bill,” he smirked as he left the office. “For popping the lock and retrieving your keys.” _

* * *

Sherlock is not home yet when you and John return. You pull files from your box, the same box you’d first taken to Sherlock when you’d convinced him to take your case. The same box you’d both poured over for months digging for clues. You lay the files on the desk and dig around for the key chain. You pull it out and it’s identical to the one you’ve found in Andrews’ belongings. You show John.

“What are the odds?” You ask. “The same garage? It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Sherlock would say the universe is rarely that lazy,” John laughed. You hear the door at the bottom of the stairs open and close, and the familiar gait of Sherlock climbing the stairs. You can tell by the rate at which he is moving that he too has found something.

He bursts into the room, holding a large yellow envelope.

“We’ve got him,” he says and it’s more cocky than it is triumphant.

“You found him trying to peddle the plans?” You ask, excitedly.

“Yes, and my contact bid on them and he took the bait. The funds transfer went through about an hour ago, thanks to Mycroft.”

“Wait a second,” John says, aghast. “You actually paid this man?”

“Of course we paid him,” Sherlock replies indignantly. “This way the jailbreak will go off without a hitch and we can track Walsh right to him.”

“That’s a bit risky,” John counters, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ve just given a terrorist a million pounds.”

“Two million,” he corrects.

“Wonderful,” John huffs. “I hope you and your brother know what you are doing.” Sherlock’s eyes leave John and momentarily land on you. He smiles slightly and it reaches his eyes, which soften a little. Your heart leaps and you smile back at him. You’ve missed him today, your thoughts never far from him or from the memories of your night together. You wonder if his thoughts revolved around something similar. His gaze leaves you and settles on the desk. You watch as he scrutinizes the box for a long moment before recognizing registers. His sweet expression changes in an instant. His features grow cold, hard and angry.

“What is that doing here?” He demands. You are so taken aback by his change in demeanor that you stammer a bit before you answer.

“We, I, we found an, um, the uh, keychain,” you say, scrambling to grab both keychains from off of the desk. “This one in Andrews’ car and this is the one from my dad… It has to mean something. It has to mean the two are somehow connected-”

“It means nothing!” Sherlock shouts so loudly that you flinch. “It’s a coincidence, nothing more.”

“Don’t you always say ---” John starts.

“Forget what I’ve said,” he yells, waving his hand at John. “Hear me now. It. Is. Nothing. Let this go.”

“No,” you yell back, forcing yourself towards him. You’re so close to him now you could have kissed him if you weren’t so furious. “No. I won’t. Not this time. If you don’t want answers, I will find them myself!”

“You want answers?” Sherlock cries, pushing past you and John. “Just how badly do you want answers, Y/N?” He rounds the desk and bends, yanking open a bottom drawer. He digs out a white envelope and shoves it at you. You look from him down to the envelope and open it, slowly pulling out a stack of black and white photographs. You are confused for several long moments. The photos have been burned through, someone’s face is missing. It takes you longer than it should to realize the photos are of you, from seven years ago, during the investigation of your father’s case. “They were going to kill you, Y/N,” Sherlock said, his deep voice stern and strained. “They will still kill you. They know you are working on the Andrews’ case. Are you willing to die for this?” You flip through the photos and see some of the two of you together. His face is unburned.

“What about you?” 

“They don’t need to kill me. I’d already be dead if they killed you,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft.

“This is why you left?” You ask, the stack of pictures shaking in your hands. He looks away from you. “You know what happened to him, don’t you?”

“More or less,” he replies. You blink several times then there is only blinding white light as rage courses through you.

“You left me, in the night, with nothing,” you spit out. “I didn’t have a father, I didn’t have you, my friend, my love, my partner. You took it all. You took everything, even my answers! What right did you have to do that? I've lived the past seven years with the big gaping hole in my heart and you were telling me that all of that could've been avoided?”

Sherlock doesn't answer you and for once you're grateful, you don't really want to hear whatever it is he might have to say right now. You gather up everything pertaining to your father's case and return it to its box. You grab it off the desk and rest it's weight on your hip and with your freehand it grab your coat from off of the couch where you had thrown it earlier.

"Where are you going?" John asks you.

“Home,” you croak out wishing that your voice sounded more defiant than it did. Neither man tries to stop you, much to your surprise and before you know it you're back out on the sidewalk, trying to put as much distance between yourself and Sherlock Holmes as possible.

* * *

_ The air in the living room of 221B was thick with tension after Y/N stormed out. _

_ “You’re not going after her?” John asked. _

_ “No,” Sherlock replied as he turned towards the window and watched as Y/N hailed a cab and climbed in. _

_ “You’re not sending me after her?” John inquired. _

_ “No,” he sighed. He was quiet for a few long moments, John watching him intently, trying to process everything that just occurred. “You heard her. My efforts to try to keep her safe have only proved to further damage her. If anything, she needs to be kept safe from me.” John sank down into his chair and leaned his head all the way back, looking up at the ceiling, feeling the muscle his tense neck stretching. _

_ “Do you know what happened to her father?” He asked Sherlock at last. _

_ “I surmised that he was still alive, in hiding somewhere. Why? I don’t know, I can only guess. Where? That I can’t even guess at now,” he said, finally turning back. “I let things quiet down for a year or two. Then one day I got bored, I started thinking about the case again, about her. I started digging, quietly, asking around a little here and there. I was making progress, real progress, but then the pictures started showing up.” Sherlock rose and left the room, heading into his bedroom and returning shortly with another file. He pulled out a few sheets of paper and handed them to John. They were the same style photos, black and white, always with Y/N’s face burned through. “So I finally stopped for good. I haven’t looked into it again since.” John flipped through the pictures before handing them back to Sherlock. He looked down at them, his eyes sadder than John could remember ever seeing them.  _

_ A short while later, John left the Baker Street flat, heading home to his family. His hands were shoved deep in his coat pockets, his head ducked against the biting cold of the chilly air. His mind was still reeling over everything that had transpired over the course of the day and he was so deep in thought, he didn’t notice the man, who was actually very well hidden in the shadows of a nearby ally, snapping photographs of him as he plodded on home.  _

_ The photographer lowered the camera and scrolled back, looking at the display screen, confirming that he’d captured the images he needed. He shivered a bit, wishing he could go back to his own home, but knowing he had a few more shots to get before he could curl up with a drink and good cigar. He stowed his camera and patted the back pocket of his jeans, ensuring that his lock picking set was indeed still there. He then set off for a much nicer part of town, marveling over just how much more beautiful his next intended subject had grown since he’d first started photographing her seven years ago. It was a real shame he always had to destroy her pretty face in all those pictures. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The magician allusions were 100% C's idea. Give her all the credit. xoxo luv ya babe.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for patiently waiting for this update, as usual. And thank you for all your comments and feedback! I appreciate it more than you will know. Also, once again, thank you to my amazing beta and contributing smut author, the one and only C.Ford. Together we make up the dynamic duo of Angst Girl and Smut Goddess! Check her out immeidetly at http://cfordwrites.tumblr.com/
> 
> Enjoy! Xoxo-Sarah

_Sherlock was never any good at channeling his emotions. You didn’t really need to learn how to deal with your feelings when you were an addict. That what getting high was for. But since he’d let Y/N walk out of his flat, John had keep a weather eye on him. John had not been there, however, when he’d received the package of pictures in his post. He’d been expecting them, of course and he knew what was inside the large white envelope before he even opened it. However, the feeling that he’d experienced upon opening it and examining them had not been the one he’d anticipated._  
_Longing. Longing, not rage, frustration or fear. He longed to be beside her in the bed she rested in alone. He longed to feel the smooth material of the nightie she slept in. He longed to be the one who watched over her as she dreamed, rather than this evil photographer, to be the one who sat across from her at the cafe where she grabbed a coffee before work or to be the one who held her basket at the market while she shopped. And he longed to see her face again._  
_He did not want to chase that feeling away with drugs. Anger could be dulled with a simple injection, but this longing, he wanted to feel it. He wanted to let the ache in his chest linger, it’s presence strangely comforting, somehow connecting him to Y/N even though they couldn’t be farther apart. Perhaps it was because he knew this was the same ache she’d felt for years and it was the same ache she was feeling now. Perhaps it was because it was the only thing left between them._  
_He’d left the photos strew across the kitchen counter, which is where John found them later that afternoon._  
_“She’s stopped digging,” Sherlock said when John had confronted him with them. “They are just trying to send me a message.”_  
_“So that’s it then?” John asked, flipping through the photos again. He traced the charred, melted edges of the holes burned through Y/N’s face, wondering how his friend, who clearly loved his woman, could be sitting here so calmly, knowing how close the photographer had gotten to her._  
_“What do you expect me to do, John?” Sherlock demanded, his voice suddenly loud. “I can’t go near her, I can’t keep her safe! She won’t let me keep her safe!”_  
_“Maybe,” John started, tossing the pictures into the fireplace, “Maybe if you stop trying to keep her safe and start trying to just keep her… Maybe things will work themselves out.”_  
_“Keep her?” Sherlock asked, his tone heavy with irritation as he was unable to find logic in John’s comment._  
_“Yes,” John sighed, exasperated. “You try to keep her safe, so you keep things from her, you lie to her, you distance yourself from her, you fight with her. What if you just did things to try to keep her close to you? Like, I don’t know, tell her the truth, be kind, apologize, buy her presents, keep her in the know. That way she will want to be around you and by being around you she will be…”_  
_“Safe,” Sherlock finished. “John, for a simple man, you can be quite profound at times.”_  
_“Thanks, I think,” John chuckled._  
_“Could you do me one last favor?” Sherlock asked, templing his fingers against his lips._  
_“Depends,” John answered, hesitantly._  
_“See to it that she comes for Christmas?” He asked._  
_“That’s easy enough,” John replied, “Being as I was going to invite her anyway.” Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded, contemplating this new found strategy John had described._

* * *

 

It’s Christmas Eve and you’ve just come from visiting your father’s plot at the cemetery. You bring a Poinsettia, even though your father never really cared for them, because you feel the need to bring something, to do something. You brush the snow off the headstone and whisper to it, feeling silly. Part of you has never felt like he was there and you’ve never felt him really anywhere. You have always wondered if this was because you never had closure or if you were simply willing him to not be gone.  
You had just hung your coat in the closet and you are daydreaming about a hot cup of cocoa when your doorbell chimes. You peek through the peephole to see John Watson in the hall. You open the door with a smile.  
“John,” you exclaim. “What are you doing here?”  
“I’ve come to bring you to our house for Christmas. You shouldn’t have to spend it alone,” he informs you and your heart swells with gratitude at this kind gesture.  
“I’m not alone,” you joke, pointing to a pile of black and white photographs. “I have my photographer friend to keep me company. I’m his muse, you know.”  
“Yes, I know, we got copies over at Baker Street,” he explains. “All the more reason to come back with me. We have a nice lot of people there, good food, better drinks. At least let them photograph a festive Christmas dinner.” Your lips twitch into a smile.  
“Fine,” you say, suddenly wanting to be surrounded by people and warmth and love. You quickly change and John takes you to his home.  
It’s a lovely home and it’s packed wall to wall with their friends and loved ones. Mary greets you as if she’s known you for ages and you are instantly grateful that John was so insistent.  
You aren’t there a full minute before you see Sherlock, leaning against the mantle and although you know you have to speak to him at some point, you just aren’t ready. Instead, you busy yourself helping Mary in the kitchen. There are several other women in the kitchen and they are chatting excitedly while they work chopping and mixing. Mary hands you a plate of hors d'oeuvres and you bring it out to the living room and set it a blank space on the coffee table. As you turn to head back into the kitchen, Sherlock steps in front of you, blocking your path. You lock eyes and hold each other’s gaze for a long moment.  
“Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he says quietly. “How have you been?”  
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” You reply. “You’ve seen the pictures, you know what I’ve been up to.” You smile, despite the serious nature of the situation.  
“I saw the pictures, save for the one part I wanted to see the most,” he whispers and your heart begins to ache. “Y/N, I know there is nothing I could say that would change these past seven years…”  
“Sherlock, it’s fine…” You sigh. “I’ve been hurt and angry for seven years, I don’t want to do this anymore.”  
“Neither do I,” he said, producing a small wrapped gift box from behind his back. He hands it to you and it’s light, about the size of a garment box. You shake it slightly, smiling, trying to guess what it is. A scarf maybe, given Sherlock’s affinity for them. You slide your index finger beneath the flap of wrapping paper and rip, peeling back the festive covering and pulling the top of the box off. You move aside a layer of white tissue paper and see a manila folder nestled in the bottom half of the box. Your eyes fly to the index tab and you see your name spelled out in Sherlock’s meticulous handwriting. You look up at him, waiting for an explanation.  
“It’s everything I have on your father’s case, everything I found, everything I know,” he says quietly. “I had no right to keep it from you. It’s not my case, it was never my case.” You feel weak suddenly, and you lock your knees together to keep them from buckling. Sherlock had just given you all the answers you’d been waiting for. Answers not just about your dad, but also about the way he felt about you. Unable to find the words to thank him, you reach up and wrap your arm around his neck, squeezing him tightly as you clutch the folder to your chest. He cautiously wraps his arms around your lower back. You release him and blink back tears.  
“Thank you,” you say and he simply nods once. You feel a tap on your shoulder and you turn to see John standing beside you. He is wearing a small, mischievous smile and he glances upwards. You and Sherlock follow his gaze and you see that you are both standing beneath a cluster of mistletoe.  
“Merry Christmas,” he says with a wink as he drifts away, leaving you both to figure out what comes next. Sherlock has straightened up to his full height, standing stiffly, watching you with a calculating look. He has never been and will never be one for public displays of affection but at this moment, you do not care. You set the box down, balancing it on the arm of an overstuffed chair beside you, freeing up both your arms. You step forward, gently placing both hands on his chest and tipping your lips up to meet his chastely.  
“I didn’t get you anything,” you sniff as you pull away.  
“Oh, but you did,” he replies.  
You spend the rest of the evening tucked against Sherlock. You’re not clingy, just close and he doesn’t seem to mind. Every once in awhile, you glance down to the box containing the file folder about your dad. You aren’t in a hurry to comb through it, to grill Sherlock. That will all come. You are more than content right now to sit close to the man you’ve waited so long for in a room full of smiling, happy people and celebrate Christmas.  
As the night winds down, you stifle a yawn and he turns to you.  
“Are you ready to go?” He questions and you nod. He stands and pulls you up. You seek out John and hug him, thanking him for making you come. Mary hugs you tightly and smiles at you knowingly as you follow Sherlock to the bedroom where all the coats have been deposited. You pull on your jacket, as does he and you smile as he picks up your scarf and gently loops it around your neck.  
“Come back to Baker Street with me?” He asks, his deep voice low and serious.  
“I’d like that,” you reply, your pulse already quickening, your blood already starting to run hot.  
It’s a short cab ride back and before long, you are standing in Sherlock’s bedroom, at the foot of his bed and he is looking at you like he has been waiting for you for ages.  
You slowly remove each other’s clothes and this time, your encounter is much different. This time, you each go much more slowly, making sure to appreciate each new part you discover. You revel in his deep, throaty groans that resonate deep in your chest and he smiles unabashedly when you cry out his name.  
Sherlock is gentle with you, his long fingers ghosting over your skin, barely touching you. It was as if you were made of fragile porcelain and he was afraid to break you.  
He enters you slowly making you draw in a silent breath. He starts to move his hips and he moans at the sensation, burying his face on your neck. You take this opportunity to whisper in his ear as he moves inside you, telling him how much you need him, how long you have waited for him. Sherlock manages to find his voice too, telling you in breathy tones how beautiful you are and how incredible you feel. You can hear the catch in his voice and you know how difficult it is for him to share this part of himself, even with you.  
The more he gives you, the more you want and you feel as if you could devour him. You wrap your hand around the back of his neck and you feel his curls, damp with sweat. He slides his hand beneath you, pulling you even closer against his hard body. His hunger matches yours thrust for thrust and there is nothing in the dimly lit room except the two of you, your love, your desire and the need to erase seven years of hurting.  
It is as if you have picked up where you left off in that small inn bedroom on that horrible raining night. You both finally fall asleep sometime early Christmas morning, physically and emotionally exhausted, tangled up in one another. You no longer fear the coming of morning as you have a better idea of what tomorrow, and many days to come, will look like.

* * *

 

 _It had stopped raining as Sherlock climbed out of the tow truck. He watched as Jim lowered Y/N’s car back to the ground. He then popped the lock and gives Sherlock the keys before tossing a quick smirk over his shoulder and driving away into the night. With a heavy sigh, he collected their bags from the car and climbed the stairs back up to the room he’d rented with Y/N and let himself in. The room was dark and Y/N was asleep in the center of the bed. The sheets had slipped away from around her neck and he could see a bare shoulder. She had fallen asleep waiting for him, wearing nothing. He slowly sank down into a wooden chair opposite the bed and propped his elbows up on his knees, resting his chin in his hands._  
 _He could wake her, make love to her, tell her what happened with Jim and take her home. Introduce her to his parents, she could take the job Mycroft was harassing her to take and they could get married._  
He watched her beautiful sleeping form, her chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. She would not give this investigation up, she would not be intimidated as he was, she would chase this to her grave. He couldn’t bear to even think about this, nevermind sit back and watch this happen.  
He would not get to kiss her, to taste her, to feel her or to hold her. He would not get to belong to her. He would not get to build the life he wanted with her. There was only one way he knew to make her stop looking and that was to convince her that there was no case.  
He rose silently and picked up his bag, pulled out dry clothes and changed. From her bag, he pulled the note pad she took everywhere. He flipped passed all her case notes to a blank page and stopped, agonizing over what to write as his throat grew tight and his chest began to ache.  
“Gone back to London. Nothing here. Another dead end. Come when you can.” He placed the notebook on the pillow next to her and turned, dashing from the room as quietly as he could.  
Jim had told him it was about a three mile walk to the train station and hefting his bag up over his shoulder, he made off in that direction, wishing that it was still raining so that his tears might not be as noticeable.


	10. Ch 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! We are getting close to the end, I hope you are enjoying it as much as I am. As always thanks to C. for her help beta-ing, editing and pushing me to be better <3 Check her out NOW at http://cfordwrites.tumblr.com/  
> Thank you for reading! xoxo - Sarah

_ Y/N slammed her car into park in front of Sherlock’s flat. Her nerves were frazzled, her head ached and her stomach felt sour. She had driven hours back to London, alone, except for her notebook, open beside her on the passenger's seat to the page where Sherlock had written his note. _

_ She’d been baffled when Sherlock hadn’t returned right away. She’d glanced out the window just in time to see the truck pulling away from the curb, towing her car behind it and figured there was a tool needed that was only on hand back at the garage. She’d showered, and slipped into bed, her body practically shaking with desire. She’d waited and waited and waited. _

_ Eventually, she’d fallen into a fitful sleep and had awoken hours later, disoriented. She’d found the note and read it over a hundred times, unable to believe what she was seeing. He’d left, for no reason, in the middle of the night.  _

_ “How can this be a dead end?” She’d asked herself over and over on the drive home. She’d called his cell phone repeatedly for hours, but it just went to his voicemail. None of this made sense to her. _

_ She pounded up the stairs and burst into his tiny flat. She saw him immediately asleep on his too small sofa, his long legs hanging over the end.  He didn’t even stir when the door slammed behind her. _

_ She cut through the small kitchen to the living room and noted a small, plastic bag of pills peeking out from under the couch. Her heart leapt to her throat and she began to frantically shake him, calling his name. He groaned and rolled over and she felt a mixture of relief and anger bubble up inside of her. _

_ “Go away,” he muttered, swatting at her. _

_ “No, I am not going anywhere until you tell me what is going on,” she exclaimed, forcing him up into a seated position. He opened his eyes and she saw that they were rimmed red and bloodshot. “Why did you leave me? What happened?” _

_ “I realized I was wasting my time,” he said with a yawn. Y/N’s eyes grew wide. _

_ “Excuse me?” She asked, wondering who this man in front of her was. _

_ “It was fun for a while, but I’ve grown a bit bored,” he replied, rubbing his face and trying to force his glazed eyes to focus on her. _

_ “You said you’d never give up,” she whispered, biting back the tears that were threatening to escape. “You kissed me…” _

_ “Bo-ring,” he said, standing and stretching, pushing past her. He staggered to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water from the tap. _

_ “But my case--” she started, trailing after him. _

_ “There was never any case!” Sherlock shouted at her. “You were a distraction, a momentary fixation. You were helpful on my real cases, I needed a reason to keep you around.” _

_ “You’re lying,” she shouted back. “I saw the way you looked at me, I heard it in your voice!” _

_ “You’re a silly little girl,” Sherlock said, turning and refilling his glass. “You’re father’s death was exactly what the police said it was. A random carjacking gone wrong. Make your peace with that and let him go.” He carried the glass back to the couch and dug out his bag of pills. _

_ “So that’s it? You decide you’re bored in the middle of the night, with a naked woman waiting in bed for you? Then you take a train back to London and get high?” She calls after him. “And just like that, it’s over?” _

_ “Yes,” he said, popping alarming large amount of pills into his mouth and chasing them with the water. “This thing that you and I invented...” he said, motioning to the space between them, flitting his finger back and forth in mid-air, “I am now ending.” She stilled for a moment, trying her hardest to make sense of what he was saying.  _

_ “And you can do that?” Y/N spoke, her voice just above a whisper. Her eyes burned with tears threatening to escape. “It would be that easy?” He blinked at her and swallowed hard before a wry smile began to form on his lips. _

_ “I’ve already done it,” he said with a dry chuckle as he stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes again.  _

_ Y/N watched him, tears now streaming down her face, wondering how she could have misinterpreted it all, wondering how he could have changed so drastically in such a short amount of time. She wanted to shake him, to stick her fingers down his throat and make him throw up all the pills, to make him change back into the man that had kissed her in the rain. She could not reconcile the man before her now with the man she’d come to know. _

_ “Sherlock,” she whispered, pleading one last time. “Don’t do this. Talk to me, please. I care about you. I don’t want this to be over.” He didn’t answer but instead a small snore escape his lips as he drifted back into his narcotic induced slumber. She felt her heart shatter into hundreds of tiny pieces. He was gone and just like that, it was all over. She shook with silent sobs as she slowly backed out of the flat. _

_ She no longer had a case to solve, no longer had a friend to work beside and no longer had the possibility of love. She drove back to her own small flat, deposited her belongings on the floor just inside the door and went for her couch, where she curled up with a blanket and sobbed. _

_ The photographer waited outside her window for hours until she’d cried herself to sleep. _

* * *

 

You are sitting up on your bed, legs crossed, dressed only in Sherlock’s shirt. He is lying behind you, curled around you, propped on one elbow, covered only by the sheet. You are both examining your Christmas present, the manila folder on your father. You’d spread Sherlock’s files out on the bed and he has just finished telling you about his night at the garage.

Your heart is in your throat and your vision swims with unshed tears. It was so different from the story you’d made up in your mind. You had convinced yourself that he’d truly grown tired of you, that he’d only been playing games, stringing you along, keeping you around just as long as it suited him. Hearing him recount his experience, hearing him trying to keep his voice devoid of emotion has made you question everything.

“So then I gave it a rest for a bit, a year or so passed and I began to dig again, quietly. I’d learned enough from Jim to safely assume that your father was still alive. I used one of my contacts to pull newly issued passports using your fathers physical description. I cross checked the list with all a list of deceased infants 5 years before and 5 years after your father’s birth. The name Bernard Fielding came up and I matched his passport photo to the one I had of your father,” Sherlock pauses and reaches around you and picks up an enlarged passport photo. Your hand flew to your mouth. The man was your father, his greying blond hair had been dyed black and he’d lost a lot of weight, but it was him. “The real Bernard Fielding died at seven months old,” he reached around again and pulled up an old obituary clipping. “The Magicians borrowed his name, date of birth and his National Insurance number and gave your dad a new identity. I tracked him all the way to Glasgow before I began receiving the burned up pictures of you again. So I stopped. I couldn’t risk them hurting you…”

You turn around, tucking your knees underneath you and look down at him. He’s rolled onto his back now, his fingers laced behind his head and he is looking up at you.

“Before you ask,” he started, reading your very thoughts, plucking the word “Why?” from your brain, “I don’t know. The Magicians did too good of a job covering their tracks.”

“The bank seems like the obvious choice,” you mused. “I just can’t imagine that he’d be involved in anything criminal.” You frown. You now find yourself wishing he was dead and gone. That reality now seems much easier to swallow than the one Sherlock is illuminating for you.

“I checked into the bank,” Sherlock explains. “And found nothing. Whatever it was, either your father was really good at it or the Magicians made it all vanish along with him.”

“All this time…” You say, tears finally forming in your eyes. “All this time he was still alive…” Sherlock pulls himself up so that he is sitting next to you. He reaches up and brushes a tear away before pulling you into his lap.

“You were right, Y/N,” he whispers. “You were right and everyone else was wrong.” He kisses your forehead gently and you close your eyes. It was all too much. The truth about your dad, this strange, new relationship forming with Sherlock, all the truths that had been exposed. You bite your lip against more tears. You want to fall apart, to fall into his arms and have him make it all better for you but you know that you can’t do that. You know that he can’t fix you, that he too is struggling with the newness of everything. You have been strong all these years, carrying on despite being alone. You cannot let yourself fall apart now. You pull away and wipe your eyes on the backs of your hands and take a deep breath.

“What do we do now?” You ask, your voice shakier than you want it to be. Sherlock purses his lips, his expression growing serious. 

“It’s your call, Y/N,” he says, quietly. “If you want to keep going, we can pick up where I left off, track him down, face whatever threats come our way. I won’t pretend that that is what I want because it's not, but whatever you choose to do, I won’t let you do it alone.” You look at him and your heart skitters in your chest. You close your eyes and try to let your mind go blank, waiting for the right answer to come to you.

“When I first came to you, I wanted answers. I wanted validation. I wanted confirmation that this little voice in my head telling me something was right and that I wasn’t crazy,” you pause and smile at Sherlock. “You’ve given me that.”

“But there is still so many questions left unanswered,” Sherlock points out, his expression full of confusion.

“I’ve gotten answers to the important ones,” you reply. “He’s not dead, which means he is living somewhere with the knowledge that I am grieving his loss. He left me. He lied to me and left me. He made his choice. I’m making mine.”

“And what do you choose, Y/N?” Sherlock asks you. You lean forward, placing a hand on each of his bare shoulders and gently push him back down to the mattress.

“I choose to move on,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his. He cranes his neck up to meet yours fully and your lips part slightly.

“I lied to you and left you, too,” he points out when you pull away.

“The difference is,” you reply, resting your head down on his bare chest, “that you came back. It seems you’ve made your choice, too.”

“Yes, I have,” he answers, his hand coming up to stroke your hair. “I only hope that you don’t come to regret your choices.” You want to say that you won’t but you hesitate. You’re not quite sure how a relationship with Sherlock will work but you know you want to try. More importantly, you want to put the ghost of your father to rest, but will it go quietly?

“Only time will tell,” you say at last. It’s an honest sentiment and you know Sherlock appreciates it because he squeezes you against him just a little tighter.

You spend the rest of the day at Baker Street. There is a fire in the hearth and Sherlock is content to sit in his chair, while you are curled up in John’s, still pouring over the large file on your father.

It’s early evening when the doorbell rings. Mrs. Hudson shows up Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“Sorry to bother you on Christmas,” he says to Sherlock, tossing a curious glance your way.

“Not a bother,” Sherlock replies. “I believe you know Y/N?”

“Yes, she was Dr. Andrews’ direct supervisor at the MOD,” Lestrade recalls.

“She is also assisting on this investigation,” Sherlock adds as a way to tell Lestrade he may speak freely in front of you. He gestures for the Detective to have a seat on the couch.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Lestrade says, sitting down. “You told me to keep you posted on anything regarding the transfer of Terrance Walsh. Just got news regarding his prison transfer. It’s been bumped up.”

“Bumped up?” you asked. “It is not for three more days.” Lestrade looks at you with surprise.

“Well it’s been pushed to tomorrow,” he informs you. You and Sherlock lock eyes. “Late transfer requested by the receiving prison in hopes of keeping excitement to a minimum. He leaves Belmarsh Prison at 9:00 pm and should be to Coldingley Prison before 10:00PM.”

“Only he is not planning on making it to Coldingley Prison,” Sherlock mutters.

“Oh, he’ll get there alright,” Lestrade assures him. “We have a convoy of officers who are there to ensure he settles into his new home.” You glance at Sherlock. You know he had decided to let the jailbreak happen in hopes of following Walsh to David Andrews but the thought of knowingly putting officer’s lives in danger was something neither of you wanted.

“We have received a bit of information,” you start and Sherlock nods, encouraging you to go on. “We believe David Andrews may be looking to intercept Walsh on his way to Coldingley.”

“You believe?” Lestrade says, his voice raised.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, cooly. “And we want you to let him go.”

“Are you joking with me right now?” Lestrade demands, incredulous. He stands up and begins to pace.

“Think about it Detective Inspector,” you say calmly, trying to pacify him. “Walsh is a gangster, a crook, but Andrews may be in possession of top secret weapons plans. Walsh is the bait, he will lead us to Andrews and we grab them both.”

“You want me to knowingly allow a fugitive and a threat to national security to spring the worst gangster London has seen in two decades and hope that we can catch them both again?”

“It might not be a bad idea to have a few officers on hand at this small airfield,” Sherlock said, jotting down the address on a notepad. He ripped the page off and handed it to Lestrade. 

“If you know what’s coming, you can prevent collateral damage,” you point out.

“We can cancel the transfer,” Lestrade offers.

“He will think of something else,” Sherlock said. “His only mission in life right now is to get Walsh out. It’s his entire reason for living.” Lestrade sinks down onto the couch, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Tell me your plan and I will see what I can do on my end,” Lestrade says.

You listen as Sherlock walks Lestrade through what he’s discovered. The link between Andrews and Walsh, the debt, the prison transfer, the bend in the road, the off-road vehicles, the trail that leads past the airfield.

“And that is where you grab them, as they board the plane,” Sherlock says. 

“What makes you think Andrews will be there?” Lestrade asks.

“Because he’s done everything else perfectly, performed his job impeccably. He’s thrown away his entire life for this man. He will want to be there to see the look on his proud father’s face and receive his praise, like a good little boy.”

“I hope you’re right,” Lestrade says after a long time.

“I usually am,” Sherlock points out. Lestrade swears a few times under his breath before standing again.

“I’d better get to work, I have a lot of convincing and ass kissing to do now,” he says, shaking his head. “On bloody fucking Christmas, no less.”

“Maybe everyone will be in the holiday spirit,” you say, forcing a smile. Lestrade leaves, still shaking his head.

“That was the right thing to do, to involve Lestrade,” you say when he leaves.

“I know,” Sherlock replies and you roll your eyes. “I am trying, you know.” He adds. You smile at him.

“You’re playing so well with others. I keep wanting to pinch myself, this all seems so good to be true,” you admit, your tone teasing in spite of the fact that you are speaking your real feelings aloud. Sherlock looks away, eyes narrowed, jaw set, and you can almost see his thoughts churning. He’s seen right through you and you wish you’d kept that comment to yourself.

“I don’t entirely know if I can make you happy, Y/N,” he says after a long while. “But I do know that I don’t want to be responsible for making you sad. Right now, that is the best I can do.” You stand and cross the room to where he is sitting in his chair. You settle down onto his lap and he wraps an arm around you, keeping you balanced there. You look at him, his sharp features, his piercing eyes, his carefully controlled expression. He is loyal and sweet in his own way. He is thoughtful, though not always considerate. And no matter how his actions afterwards contradicted it, you saw the look of love on his face that night in the rain. No one before or since had ever looked at you like that. He’s been trying to avoid human connection, to avoid hurting like he did when he walked away from you, but you are certain he loves you still. It just might take some time before you can show you, but for that look, you are more than willing to wait. 

“I know you,” you whisper. “I’ve always known you. I won’t ever ask for more than you are willing to give.” He blinks and something familiar flickers across his features so quickly you almost miss it. He brings his other hand to your cheek and uses it to guide your lips to his. You pull away and stand, tugging him up and luring him back to the bedroom. There isn’t much time for the two of you now, given Walsh’s expedited transfer, but you need him still and you are determined to get enough to tide you over until this case is finally closed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to the end. Thank you for going on this journey with me! And thanks again to C for beta-ing !  
> Make sure you check her out at cfordwrites.tumblr.com  
> xoxox - Sarah

Sherlock is still asleep as you slip from the bed. You tug his shirt on and button it as you tiptoe from the room. Casting a glance over your shoulder from the doorway, you smile at his sleeping form and weigh your desire to crawl back into bed against your need to use the bathroom. Nature wins out and you dash to the restroom.

On your way back to bed, you stop and put the kettle on. You’re dropping a few slices of bread in the toaster when Sherlock emerges from his room, wrapped in the bedsheet. You giggle.

“You’ve stolen my shirt,” he murmurs sleepily.

“You’re wearing a sheet,” you reply, biting your bottom lip. You are standing in Sherlock Holmes’ kitchen, having adorable morning-after-banter with him. You wonder if you are still dreaming. 

You hear the front door shut and footsteps on the stairs. More than one pair. You glance at Sherlock to see that he is frowning. The door opens and you manage to scoot behind the island in the kitchen, trying to preserve your modesty. Even though his shirt more than covers you, you are fully aware that you have nothing on underneath it. Sherlock doesn’t move, just continues to glare at the doorway, which is suddenly filled with John Watson.

“I thought we talked about knocking,” Sherlock reprimands him in a tone. John takes in Sherlock’s sheet and your commandeered attire and the tips of his ears turn red.

“I thought we talked about restricting certain activities to more private areas of the flat,” he counters, hands on his hips, eyes on his shoes.

“We agreed to no such thing,” Sherlock replies. Just then, the door opened wider and the owner of the second pair of footsteps was revealed.

“Good morning, Brother mine,” Mycroft said, his expression somehow a mix of annoyance and amusement at the same time. “And good morning, Y/N.”

“Ugh,” you reply, wrinkling your nose at him. Mycroft is unphased.

“What is it that you two require at such an early hour?” Sherlock asks, not bothering to keep the irritation from his voice.

“It’s half past eleven,” John informs him. Sherlock looks to you and you nod.

“And yet, neither of you look well rested,” Mycroft adds. You roll your eyes. The kettle starts to whistle and you move to it, pulling it from the heat at setting it down on the trivet.

“Why don’t I fix the tea and you two can go get dressed?” John offers. Yanking on the bottom hem of the shirt, you smooth it down over yourself and pad back to Sherlock’s room. You both dress in your clothes from the night before and join your guest back in the living room.

“So I take it you two carpooled here?” You say once you have a cup of tea in front of you.

“I ran into Mycroft on the curb,” John explains. “I heard about Walsh’s transfer. Lestrade says you let him in on your little plan.” 

“And I happened upon the most interesting communication last night,” Mycroft explains, producing a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He hands it to Sherlock who reads it to himself. His eyes fly to you and if looks could kill, you’d be as good as dead. He hands the paper to John who reads it aloud.

“Meet up near St Mary’s as planned. Get to the Pretty One and take her out of the country. Put her under once it’s done. No loose ends,” It’s John’s turn to look at you. You feel a cold pit forming in your stomach.

“Pretty little nose. That’s what Walsh said to me in the prison,” your voice coming out in a whisper. “That’s what the man who attacked me called me.”

“It is such a pretty little nose, though,” Mycroft says and you glare at him again and notice Sherlock doing the same. “I can protect her, Sherlock,” he continues. “We can keep her safe while you take down Walsh.”

“Perfect,” Sherlock says almost instantly.

“What? No!” You cry, jumping up. “I don’t need his protection. Nor do I want it! I’d rather be ‘put under’ by Walsh and Andrews!”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Mycroft scolds you. “All I ever tried to do was hire you to work for me.”

“Yes, but when I declined you tried to do it by sabotaging all my other interviews!” You shout, exasperated.

“Your point?” He asks, lazily. You bite back a growl and move on.

“I’m not going anywhere with him,” you inform them. “If you think I am in danger, fine, I will stay out of the take down, but do not make me go with him and ‘his people’.”

“Y/N, under no circumstances are you---hold on,” Sherlock says, stopping and eyeing you warily. “Did you just say that you’d stay out of it?” You puff out a long breath and finally nod.

“Look, I won’t pretend it’s what I want because it's not,” You say parroting his words from last night back to him with a smile. “But you’re trying so hard. I thought I might put forth a little effort as well. I don’t want to fight with you and I don’t want to make things more difficult. They clearly have singled me out, so I will lay low until it’s done.” Sherlock squints at you and presses the knuckles of a balled up fist to his lips. 

“She can stay at my place on the coast,” Mycroft offers. “The town is practically deserted this time of year. She will be safe.”

“Fine,” you and Sherlock say at the same time.

“Fine,” Mycroft agrees, rising from the couch. “Best of luck to you all then. And if you ever decide you want a job,” he says turning to you. You wince and shake your head. “Good day then,” he says at last as he ducks out of the flat.

Sherlock watches Mycroft leave, but his eyes stay trained on the door long after he has gone, his mind elsewhere. You rise and gather up the tea cups and bring everything back into the kitchen. You are rinsing then when a long arm reaches past you and shuts the water off. You turn to see Sherlock gazing down at you.

“People don’t often surprise me,” he murmurs. You smile up at him and delight as he returns it. He swipes his fingertips across your cheek and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I will join you down there, once it’s done,” he whispers and something tugs at your stomach. Flashes of Sherlock fill your mind, his naked body lit by candles moving above you while waves crash against the beach off in the distance. His smile grows slightly wider as he watches a lusty flush creep its way up your throat.

“Let’s get this over with quickly then, shall we,” you say, playfully shoving him back towards the living room.

* * *

 

_ Sherlock’s heart was in his throat as he watched the towncar Mycroft had hired for Y/N pull away from Baker Street. She was on her way an hour and a half east, to his place in Minster, where she would be safe until they finished this case. He allowed himself to watch the taxi until it rounded a corner out of sight. He glanced up at the sky, a wintry grey ceiling above London. A perfect afternoon to lie about in the arms of his lover, composing concertos in his mind to the rhythm that her heart beat.  _

_ “Car’s waiting,” Lestrade’s voice said, breaking through his reverie. Sherlock glared at the man, turned his collar up about his neck and climbed into the waiting squad car next to John. They all rode in silence for a few minutes before John cleared his throat. _

_ “She’ll be fine, you know,” he said, quietly. _

_ “I know that,” Sherlock retorted. _

_ “Well just in case you were worrying…” _

_ “I’m not worrying,” he said, only half lying. “My mind is on the case at hand. I suggest you focus yours there as well and save your words of comfort for someone who actually needs them.” _

_ Lestrade glanced in his rearview mirror and caught John’s eyes and raised his own eyebrows at him in a silent exchange. The rest of the drive was done in silence. _

_ Lestrade had gathered everyone for a briefing and once the group was assembled, he began. _

_ “We have reason to believe that missing MOD scientist David Andrews is alive and well and will be carrying out a jail break tonight for one Terrance Walsh.” _

_ “You mean attempting to carry out,” Donovan piped up. _

_ “No, he means carrying out,” Sherlock replied, disdainfully. _

_ “Don’t start you two,” Lestrade scowled at them. “He’s right though. We need Walsh to lead us to Andrews, whom we believe to be in possession of stolen weapons plans.” _

_ He went through the evidence quickly, finishing with the intercepted communication Mycroft had presented that morning.  _

_ “The communication sights St. Mary’s as the meeting place, which is the name of the church on the corner across from the small airfield identified. We have snipers in location at the airfield and lookouts in the forest where we believe the convoy will be intercepted. All transport personnel have been informed and instructed to stand down. We will intercept both Walsh and Andrews at the airfield. Any questions?” _

_ After a few brief questions, the room was dismissed to their positions. John, Sherlock and Lestrade headed out to get into potion at the airfield to wait. Only a few more hours, Sherlock thought to himself. And compared to the seven years he’d been waiting, it seemed like a very manageable amount of time. _

 

Mycroft’s home was right on the ocean. It was sparsely furnished, barely decorated and it was cold. He’d sent his housekeeper to turn on the heat and hot water and light a fire in the hearth but the house was still warming up. Sherlock said he kept it mostly as a place for their parents to holiday and that he himself had never been. You walk room to room and can see no trace of anything personal, no mementos, no photos and this somehow makes you feel even colder. You long for Sherlock. You miss him as if this is the first time you two have been a part. You want to be alone with him, slowly peeling off one protective layer at a time, finding your way back into his heart. The text message jingle on your phone makes you jump and you press your hand over your heart as if to keep it safe inside your chest. Your other hand pulls the phone from your back pocket and reads the new message.

**_-In position at airfield_ **

**_\--In position at beach house_ ** you type back then add **_It’s lonely_ **

You wait a few moments, anxiously watching the screen of your phone. After a few long seconds, a new message pops up. 

- **_Soon._ **

You smile and tuck your phone away. You locate a few extra pillows and blankets and drag them before the fire. Here, you finally settle down with a book to wait, but it’s hard to read. Your friends, your love, are about to attempt to take down a cunning scientist and crafty mobster. You feel anxiety and irritation flare in your chest. You should be there, you worked so hard and risked so much for this case. You desperately want to see it through to the end, but then Sherlock’s words echo in your head.

“ _ They don’t need to kill me. I’d already be dead if they killed you _ ,” he’d told you. He’d been living half alive, keeping himself half dead, steeling himself against the loss he knew he would never recover from. You have been slowly breathing life back into him since he’d walked into your office that day, but he still lived with the fear of losing you again. That is why he had pushed you away back then and that is why you left tonight. To keep his heart safe, you had to keep yourself safe. It was actually quite easy and somewhat noble when you looked at it from that perspective. You chuckled to yourself as you rise to add another log to the fire, thinking of how you could remind Sherlock of your selflessness and nobility for years to come. 

* * *

_ Hours felt more like days as Sherlock shifted in his seat. He, John and Lestrade were parked in St Mary’s parking lot, listening to the scanner and waiting. The tension was palpable, Sherlock’s own blood pounding in his ears. The convoy had left the prison some time ago and every so often an officer would come across the radio, calling out that a check point had been passed. As it drew nearer to the designated bend in road, John would clench his fists tighter, Lestrade would sit taller and Sherlock’s craving for a cigarette would grow stronger.  _

_ “Just past checkpoint Bravo,” Donovan's voice crackled over the speakers.  _

_ “About three minutes now,” Lestrade said needlessly. The countdown timer in Sherlock’s head was ticking down and he knew exactly how much time was left before it hit zero. _

_ Lestrade leaned forward and wrapped his arm around the steering wheel and John held his breath. Suddenly, the scanner exploded with chatter. Voices yelling that the convoy was being overrun, the spotters calling out that tear gas canisters were being deployed, the accompanying officers yelling for back-up.  _

_ “Walsh is out, repeat, Walsh has escaped,” a spotter called in. Lestrade twisted his hand on the steering wheel. “We have eyes on the all terrain vehicles. They are fleeing eastbound!” Sherlock bolted upright in his seat. _

_ “They can’t be fleeing eastbound!” he exclaimed. Lestrade grabbed the walkie talkie handset and yelled into it. _

_ “Confirm they are fleeing eastbound!” _

_ “Roger that sir,” the voice came back. Lestrade threw the handset at the dash and bounced it off, swinging from its coiled cord. _

_ “You told me they would head for the airfield!” he shouted at Sherlock. _

_ “Give me a minute,” Sherlock shouted back, his mind spinning, gears whirring and grinding. He pressed his fingertips to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut, his features set in determination as he scoured his mind palace for the pieces he missed. _

_ “What do we do, Boss?” Donovan called over the radio. _

_ “What do I tell them?!” Lestrade demanded. Sherlock didn’t answer, he didn’t even hear the question. “Sherlock!”  _

_ “Just be quiet!” John called from the back seat. “Let him think!” _

_ Road maps panned out before him as his mental GPS navigated a million possible routes. _

_ Pretty one. _

_ Pretty little nose. _

_ Pretty little broken nose. _

_ Bruised, battered and beautiful Y/N. _

_ Put her under. _

_ Y/N’s body under his. _

_ Saint Mary’s. _

_ East Bound. _

_ No loose ends. _

_ Put her under.  _

_ Near Saint Mary’s. _

_ The Pretty One. _

_ “It's a boat,” he said suddenly, his eyes snapping open. He pulled out his phone, fingers furiously tapping at the screen. “The first letters were capitalized.” _

_ “What is a boat?” Lestrade shouted.  _

_ “There. Saint Mary’s Yacht Club,” he murmured. “Don’t you see? ‘Put her under.’ They are going to sink a boat. ‘Take the pretty one out of the country.’ They weren't talking about Y/N at all!  The Pretty One is a boat. Pretty One! They were never going to leave by plane!” _

_ “Of course,” John piped up. “They'd have to land a plane somewhere. They can take a boat and dock anywhere. They can literally…..” _

_ “Disappear,” Sherlock said, a chill running down his spine. _

_ “How fast can you get your people in place at Saint Mary’s?” John asked Lestrade.  _

_ “It's going to have to go up the chain,” he said, running his hand through his short hair. “I had to get all sorts of special clearance to allow our men to relinquish custody of Walsh. If word gets out that we knowingly let him escape…” _

_ “Saint Mary’s is right on the coast,” John said quietly.  _

_ “No. No. Absolutely not,” Sherlock said, turning in his seat to glare daggers at John. “She is not an option!” _

_ “She could buy us some time until we can get our people in place,” Lestrade seconded. _

_ “You cannot use her for this!” He roared, throwing the car door open and jumping out. He ran a hand through his dark curls and exhaled, his breath visible in the cool night air. John exited the car as well and came to stand in front of his friend. _

_ “She is more than capable…” _

_ “She is a lone woman!” Sherlock growled, his nostrils flaring as he took in deep, agitated breaths.  _

_ “She is also a great detective, an upper level MOD employee and one of the bravest women I’ve ever met!” John countered. “She doesn’t have to engage in hand to hand combat, but at least we would have someone on the ground until Lestrade can clear things with his brass.” Angered, he began to pace beside the car. Pushing Y/N away all those years ago had left a huge gaping hole in his heart, one that he’d intentionally been pouring salt into day after day, week after week, year after year. He had not realized exactly how broken he was until he had started to heal. With Y/N back in his life, he had gotten a taste of the life he had almost had, the life he wanted, the life he could now have. He would not- he COULD not- go back to that life. The night noises disappeared, the chill from the air vanished, the smell of the exhaust from the running car faded. The only thing that existed was the beating of his battered heart, his blood ringing in his ears. It was too much to ask of her and it was too much to ask of him. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head and the sights, the sounds and the smells returned. He opened his eyes again to see John looking at him, concern etched across his face. _

_ “I can’t… I can’t lose her again, John,” he croaked, startling the other man with this rare display of emotion.  _

_ “You won’t,” John replied, his voice quiet. “She wants to help. You know it’s killing her to sit this one out.” The corner of Sherlock’s lip twitched as he envisioned her, pacing the floors of the beach house, wearing out the carpeting. He reached down in the the pocket of his coat and pulled out his cell. Pulling up her number, he held it to his ear, anxiously awaiting the sound of her voice, a sick feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. He prayed that he would not live to regret this. _


	12. Ch 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter. Thank you all so much for reading and thanks to the amazing C for beta-ing and always pushing me to be better. Read her amazing works at http://cfordwrites.tumblr.com/  
> Hope you enjoy! xoxox - Sarah

Your hands are shaking from the rush of nerves as you listen carefully to Mycroft's instructions. He sends you down to the master bedroom, into the closet. There is a small safe built into the wall and you key in the code as he tells it to you. You hit the last digit in the impossibly long combination and you hear a click.

“Pull it open,” Mycroft says and you do. There are stacks of cash, car keys and a handgun. “I assume you know how to use that?” You nod, but realize he can’t see you.

“I have my Firearm Certificate,” you murmur, pulling out the magazine and verifying that it is full. You check the safety and shove it in your waistband of your pants at the small of your back. Before closing the safe, the keychain on the set of car keys catches your eye. Smiling, you pocket them, close the safe and hang up with Mycroft. Almost immediately your cell rings again and it’s Sherlock.

“You have it?” he asks.

“I do,” you say, feeling the cold weight of the gun at your back.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says for about the tenth time.

“It’s fine,” you say, half to him and half to yourself. “I got this.” Then neither of you speak. You want to tell him that you love him and that everything will be fine. That this is so close to being over and that you will be together again soon. You say nothing. He says nothing.

“Just be careful,” he says at last. “We are on our way now.”

“Text me when you are close,” you tell him and he tells you that he will. You hang up the phone, making sure the ringer is off before you shove it in your back pocket. Grabbing your coat and lacing up your boots, you make your way through the house to the garage on the lower level. As you push the door open, the lights in the garage automatically come on and you grin as you see the silhouette of a Porsche Carrera GT under a cloth car cover. You stride towards it and gently pull the cover off, letting it fall silently to the floor.

“Silver, Mycroft?” you say with a smile. “A bit flashy for you, don’t you think?” You turn to a small tool chest and rummage through it quickly, grabbing two screwdrivers and a pair of wire cutters. You look for a bag or something to carry everything in and finding nothing, you shove the tools into the tops of your boots. 

You hit the unlock key on the FOB and climb in. You take a quick second to adjust the seat way forward before wrapping your hands around the leather steering wheel. Thinking about how much Mycroft must hate this, you hit the button on the automatic garage door opener starting the engine as the door slowly folds up.

The Porsche takes off and you peel down the driveway and onto the road. Momentarily forgetting what awaits you at the Yacht Club, you revel in the thrill of the ride. The buzz-buzzing of the phone in your pocket snaps you back to reality. It’s Sherlock again.

“Patrol just found the four wheelers abandoned on a side road,” He explained. “Witnesses say they took off in an SUV. We think they are about a half hour out. We are about 45 minutes out.” You push down on the accelerator and again the car leaps forward with a throaty roar from the engine.

“I’m about 20,” you reply as you zip past other motorists. “Maybe 15.”

“Good,” he replies, then pauses. “Be careful.” You laugh and roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you.

“I will,” you respond. “And Sherlock, do me a favor? Tell Mycroft that he can consider any damage done to his car retribution for meddling in my career.”

“I’m sure he will understand,” Sherlock replies dryly before hanging up.

You take the exit for St Mary’s on two wheels, not slowing down much and enjoying the squelch of the tires way more than you should. You park about a block away and walk quickly towards the yacht club, staying in the shadows.

It’s late and cold and the place is deserted. Most of the boats have been pulled from the water and winterized, but a few decent sized fishing vessels appear to still be functioning. You glance at your watch, you only have a few minutes to look for the boat called The Pretty One. You take off running down the docks, feeling a bit unsteady as they rock beneath your feet.

You read the names of the boats of the sterns as you go. Towards the end of the dock, you finally see it. The Pretty One. It’s not pretty. It’s rusty and old, the painted used to write the name has faded. It’s a good sized boat, maybe onced used for deep sea fishing. It appears to be vacant so you step up onto the side and jump down into it. Using the flashlight on your phone, you quickly glance around. There is nothing overtly useful. No large maps with a destination circled in bright red marker, no fake passports, no suitcase of money or stolen weapons plans. You quickly make for the engine compartment as per Sherlock’s instructions. You see the two large diesel motors. Pulling out the Phillip’s head screwdriver from your boot, you quickly set about removing the first the engine block cover and hoist it aside. Your eye follow several sets of wires until you locate the spark plugs. You carefully remove one of the spark plugs and bang it on the ground hard several times, enough to close the gap inside so that the engine won’t fire. You replace the cover and move to the second engine, repeating this act once more, ensuring that the boat won’t be able to leave the dock, even if “Jim” the mechanic-slash-magician is on board.

You tidy up, putting everything just as it was and shove the tools back down into your boot.

Heading back up to the top deck, you freeze as the sound of tires on gravel fills the air. You glance up to the parking lot and see two SUVs pulling in, their headlights illuminating the vacant club. You duck down, and silently slip back over the side of the boat. Crouching down, you scurry along the docks searching for a place to hide. There is another boat a few yards down that is not covered for the winter. You climb inside and try to find the best vantage point. From a back corner, you can see the rear of The Pretty One from just over the top of this boat’s railing. You pull out your phone and you tap out a quick message to Sherlock.

**\--Our friends just arrived, I am hiding a few yards away**

You imagine his dismay at reading this news and you can practically hear him screaming at Lestrade to drive faster. 

**-15 minutes out**

You purse your lips together and watch several figures exit the SUVs. There is a bit of scurrying around in the parking lot and you watch as two figures, one from each SUV, embrace.

**_\--Walsh and Andrews are here_ ** You text Sherlock. The group begins to make their way towards the docks and you keep your eyes trained on them, counting silently to yourself.

**\--7 men, 5 guns visible**

They close the distance to their boat quickly and you realize you are holding your breath as you wait for them to try to start up the engine. Your blood is pounding in your ears. You can hear their voices clearly as they cross the dock to their boat. 

“Start her up, we need to move now,” someone calls. You bite your lip and wait.  A few long seconds pass and you can only hear murmuring. It sounds happy, as if they are congratulating themselves on pulling off a successful escape. Seconds turn into minutes, which feel more like years. 

Suddenly, the whining sound of the boat’s two large diesel engines trying to turn over fills the cold, night air. There is about five seconds of silence before someone tries again. You don’t dare breathe. Again, the engines didn’t start. They immediately try it once more but the only sound that follows are several angry voices shouting simultaneously.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

- **7 minutes**

The boat’s lights come on and you can see a flurry of movement around the engine compartments. 

“It could be anything!”

“I thought you said it started this morning!”

“It bloody well did!”

“Fucking fix it!”

“There is no time!”

Then there was silence. You remind yourself to breathe as your eyes strain to see exactly what’s happening. The group congregates in a circle and one of them gestures in the direction of your vessel.

“Oh shit,” you whisper to yourself. You pull out your phone and send a quick text.

**\--Hurry think i'm in trouble**

You shove your phone deep in your back pocket and pull out your gun from your waistband. You thumb off the safety and chamber a round. Then, you remove the screwdriver from your boot and slide it up the sleeve of your jacket.

The lights on the other boat go out. The group of men disembark and start heading down the dock towards your boat. You scurry backwards and duck between a padded deck chair and the side of the boat. 

Adrenaline is pumping through your body and your focus is laser sharp. An eerie calm washes over you and you know what you have to do. The boat dips sharply as the band of criminals piles on board.

“You will have to hotwire it,” a voice says and a figure heads towards the ignition, directly opposite you. You recognize him as the same mechanic from Sanderson towing, all those years ago. He begins to yank a rainbow of wires from beneath the starter panel.

“How much longer?” A voice snaps and you turn to see Walsh, still in prison garb, standing impatiently with his hands on his hips. You wait, not breathing, as he comes to stand directly in front of you, his back to you, all of his attention focused on Jim.

You grip your weapon, finger on the trigger and you count to yourself. One. Two. Three. Then, you spring.

“Nobody moves,” You say, one arm wrapping around Walsh’s neck as the other presses the gun to his temple. You look from man to man, and they all looked stunned. No one reaches for their weapons. You yell to those that are already holding their guns to drop them overboard and several splashes can be heard.

“Y/N,” Jim says, trying to startle you by speaking your name. You aren’t startled.

“Don’t talk, just hold still or I will kill him,” you say, tightening your grip around Walsh’s neck. Your eyes settle on the familiar face of David Andrews. “Then I will kill Dr. Andrews.” The color drains from his face. “The police are on their way. They will be here any second.”

“Y/N,” Jim says again. “You are not a killer, this is not your fight, put the gun down and we will let you go.”

“I can’t do that,” you say, your voice strong with conviction. “Your little disappearing act is all over.”

“If you let us go, I will tell you what happened to your father,” he offers.

“I don’t care anymore,” you say, but there is less conviction in your voice than before.

The faint sound of police sirens comes into earshot. You fight the urge to smile as relief floods you. Sherlock, John and Lestrade are seconds away. Walsh wiggles against you and you are distracted long enough that you don’t see Jim’s hand move to a switch on the control panel. He flips on the flood light and you, along with everyone else on board, flinch and shy away from the bright light. Jim seizes the opportunity and lunges at you, shoving you hard with his shoulder. Walsh wrestles away from you as you fight to keep your weapon out of Jim’s hands. A sharp elbow to the side of his head makes your vision go dark and you blink as you fight to stay conscious. You lose your grip on your gun and it clatters to the ground away from you. You push yourself up on your hands and knees and look around, you head ringing, your vision blurred.

A hand on the back of your hair hauls you to your feet. As your head is pulled sharply back, you catch a glimpse of Sherlock sprinting down the dock, John and Lestrade in his wake.

“Andrews,” Jim’s voice says cautiously. “What are you doing?” You realize it’s David Andrews that is holding you now and that he has your own gun pressed to your head, the muzzle digging into your cheek.

“Andrews!” Sherlock yells from the dock. 

“Stop right there!” David screams,  his voice shrill and filled with panic.

“She’s not part of this,” Jim says, taking a careful step towards you both.

“If anyone moves I will fucking kill her,” Andrews cries, and you feel him dig the gun into your flesh even harder. “She knows too much. She is going to ruin everything.” The instability in his voice, the sheer terror, he is a man pushed to the edge. You know without a shadow of a doubt that he will kill you.

You lock eyes with Sherlock and he stares back at you. He is so close, but so far away. He looks cold, his fair skin already turning ruddy in the cold ocean air. You think of the warm fire back at Mycroft’s and how royally you’ve fucked everything up. The one thing you weren’t supposed to do, the one thing Sherlock could not survive. 

“I’m so sorry,” you say to him.

“Don’t,” he replies, his tone commanding you to not start saying your good-bye.

“Stop talking!” Andrews shrieks and you wince, realizing you have only a few seconds left with them man you adore.

“I love you,” you say, your eyes trained on Sherlock. He takes a step forward and Andrews removes the gun from your head and points it at Sherlock’s chest. He stops moving and raises his hands slowly in front of him. It’s exactly the distraction you need. You let the screwdriver up your sleeve slip discreetly down into your palm and in one swift movement you bring your hand up and jab the screwdriver into Andrew’s neck. He screams loudly as you dive away, scrabbling across the deck, trying to find cover. Still screaming wildly, Andrews tries to aim and fires at you. Splinters from the boat’s wooden plank floor fly in every direction as you roll out of the way. You hit the wall at the side of the boat and look around for a place to hide. Andrews has pulled the screwdriver from his neck and tossed it aside. He is pressing one hand over the wound, which is spurting blood and still holding the gun he bears down on you. You squeeze your eyes closed and pray, sending silent messages to God to forgive you your sins and accept you into his kingdom. A shot rings out and you jump and brace for the end.

A body hits the deck but it’s not yours. It’s not yours. You open your eyes and see Andrews in a heap on the ground, blood seeping out from beneath him. Your own hands quickly move along your body, checking for bullet holes and finding none. Confused, you look around but things have shifted into slow motion and it is as if someone has turned the sound way, way down. 

Lestrade and John Watson are holding out their handguns and shouting as the other men place their hands on their hands and lower themselves to the ground. Several other officers are running down the docks towards you, guns drawn, Lestrade pointing off to the distance, yelling to check for another shooter. 

Sherlock landing hard with two feet on the boat’s deck and making his way to you. His mouth is moving, shouting your name, but he sounds so far away. He reaches you and grips your shoulders, looking you up and down frantically. You blink at him for a second and then, with a jolt, your brain catches up to your senses. Sounds flood back in and time seems to resume its normal pace. 

“Are you hurt?” Sherlock is asking, his long fingers unzipping your jacket and his hands roam over your torso.

“I am fine,” you say at last.

“You’re bleeding,” he says pushing your hair away from you neck. “John! She’s bleeding.” 

“I think I am ok,” you say again as John appears at Sherlock’s side. He checks the wound on your neck.

“It’s just a scratch,” he assures you both. “Probably from a splinter of decking. She will be alright. Let’s get her out of here.” Both men hoist you up and you get your unsteady legs under you. You shrug off their assistance, but Sherlock stays at your side. John hops out of the boat first and helps you onto the dock, which sways beneath your already shaking knees. You watch as Lestrade and his fellow officers cuff Walsh and his accomplices and take them into custody. 

“It’s over,” you breathe, looking up at Sherlock.

“It’s done,” he confirms, leading you towards to dry land and into the back of a waiting ambulance.

He leans against the bumper as the EMTs wrap a blanket around you and clean and bandage the cut on your neck. He watches you intently, studying you, watching for a hint that you might not actually be alright.

“I’m fine,” you whisper to him and he purses his lips, crosses his arms over his chest and looks away from you. You feel panic set in as you realize he is closing himself back off, that he is slipping away and you realize tonight’s near miss was too close for his comfort. 

Lestrade appears at the back entrance of the ambulance, looking like he doesn't know if he should be jubilant or somber.

“You alright?” He asks and you nod, assuring him that you are.

“Thank you,” you say. “For shooting Andrews.” Lestrade’s eyebrows shoot skyward in surprise.

“I didn't shoot him,” he says. “I was coming to ask you if you had anyone else on sight here, a sniper perhaps?” Baffled, you look at Sherlock, who looks grimly back at you.

“No, I was alone?” You say. “Wait… If you didn't shoot him… Who did?”

“The shot came from the direction of the shore and the bullet was from a high powered rifle that tore through the center of Andrews’ heart,” Lestrade explained. “We are looking for the shooter now, but as of yet, we’ve found nothing. Someone had your back, Miss L/N. Any idea who?”

You look from Lestrade to Sherlock and start to shiver.

“She is still in quite a bit of shock,” the EMT says.

“We’re done for now, Lestrade,” Sherlock says and Lestrade doesn’t fight him. You make plans to finish your statement tomorrow.

Much later, after Sherlock had retrieved the Porsche and you’d gotten the “all clear” from the EMT, he is driving the two of you back to Mycroft’s beach house. You are snuggled deep into the leather bucket seat, your shock blanket still wrapped around you.

You watch as Sherlock shifts gears smoothly, his eyes trained on the road. It feels done, what you had with him. The air between the two of you in the small car has a finality to it and you are silently grieving the loss, unsure of what you could do now to salvage it.

He pulls into the garage and parks the car, not bothering to replace the car cover. You lead the way upstairs and into the living room. The first thing you notice is that the fire is still roaring, though it should have gone out ages ago. The second thing you notice is that Sherlock has a gun drawn.

“There is no need for that, Mr. Holmes,” a strangely familiar voice says. Your eyes quickly land on a ghost, seated in a high back chair across from the fire. Sherlock doesn’t lower his gun. You squint at the figure, afraid to believe it, afraid you are still in shock.

“D-Dad?” You choke out.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he says, rising. “I’m so sorry for everything. I came to make sure you were alright and to explain…” You look at Sherlock and he is looking at you. You nod and he lowers the gun. 

“Mr. Holmes, can you give us a minute?” Your father asks.

“No, he stays,” you say and the man that you once called Dad nods. “That was you tonight? You shot Andrews?” 

“I did,” he says, gesturing for you to take a seat on the sofa across from him. The three of you sit. “But perhaps if I start at the beginning…”

* * *

 

_ Sherlock should not have been surprised that Mr. L/N was waiting for them. He had already started putting the pieces together at the Yacht Club when Lestrade mentioned a second shooter. But his attention, his focus, had been trained on Y/N, as it always had been, even from the beginning. She distracted him in almost every way possible. And even as he listened to the other man tell his story, his every thought rested on Y/N. _

_ “After I got out of the Army, I tried to go back to civilian life. I got into banking, held a respectable job and I was content. A few years after you were born, one of my fellow officers approached me. He needed help, he needed assistance relocating, he had debts, he had gotten involved with the wrong people and now he owed them money. I didn’t ask too many questions, but I used what I had learned during my time with Army Intelligence and I helped him move on…” _

_ “Disappear,” Sherlock provided. _

_ “Yes,” the older man nodded. “I became known in circles as The Magician, I could make almost anyone vanish. I was good, I was really, really good. Then your mother got sick and I stopped all relocation activities. I focused on you and your mother. When she passed, I promised myself that I would stop bringing anything illegal home with me and I did. For years, I turned down offers and jobs and money. Then one day, a young man approached me. He wanted to learn my trade, he wanted to be my protege. I turned him away, too. He wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He stalked us, stalked me, leaving his calling card everywhere…” _

_ “The keychain?” Y/N guessed. Her father nodded. _

_ “And photos, of you, burned through with a cigar. So I agreed, I trained him, I taught him my skills and my secrets. He was good, but he had darker aspirations. Where I helped good people runaway from bad decisions, he found that there was more money in helping bad people run away from other bad people. I didn’t want to get involved, I didn’t want to bring that kind of business into my home. I couldn’t control him, so I decided to back out. By that time, he had gotten us in so deep that I had little to no options left.” _

_ “So you yourself had to vanish,” Sherlock stated. _

_ “I had to,” the father continued. _

_ “That’s why he tried so hard to keep us off the case,” Y/N guessed. “If we found you alive, he knew that you would have to expose him to justify your own disappearance.” _

_ “Exactly,” the old man confirmed. Sherlock glanced at Y/N and saw her watching the fire dance in the hearth, deep in thought. _

_ “I spent years grieving you,” she whispered at last, her voice thick with emotion. “I spent years searching for answers.” _

_ “You have them all now,” he said, standing. “So I am afraid I must go.” _

_ “What? Go? Why?” She exclaimed, jumping up from the sofa. “Jim is in custody.” _

_ “I still have bad people after me, I fear I always will,” he explained, “I must get that as far away from you as possible.” They stood facing each other for a few long moments and Sherlock felt as if he was intruding on a moment in which he had no right to witness. Slowly, her father opened his arms and Y/N hesitated a moment. Then, slowly, she moved to him and the two embraced tightly.  _

_ “I never thought I’d be able to do that again,” he whispered. “So thank you.” Y/N released him and nodded tearfully. “You’ve grown into an amazing woman. I am so proud of you. I love you, Y/N.” _

_ “Thank you...Dad…I love you, too,” she sniffed and he turned to Sherlock. _

_ “I’ve been watching you these past few years,” he said carefully. “And from where I have stood, I can see that you love my daughter very much. So thank you.” He extended his hand and Sherlock looked at it for a moment before taking it in his and shaking it.  _

_ “Good luck to you both,” he said, as he slowly backed away. He let himself out the back door and disappeared into the night. Y/N watched him go and as soon as he was out of sight, her eyes rolled back in her head and her knees buckled. Sherlock was beside her in an instant, catching her as she fainted against him, the excitement of the day finally proving to be too much. He scooped her up, cradling her against his chest and carried her to bed. _


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all so much for going on this journey with me! I have enjoyed this more than you will ever know and I have had a blast writing this with my good friend C's help. Make sure you check her out at http://cfordwrites.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> Thank you to all of you who left Kudos, comments or sent me Tumblr messages and liked my posts. It boosts my spirits and spurs me on. 
> 
> Thank you again and I will see you all on the next story! Send me your thoughts and suggestions and check out my other Sherlock x Readers at http://prettyxlittlexwriter.tumblr.com/
> 
> Enjoy! Love, Sarah xoxo

You don’t recognize the feeling of the bed as you wake, the scent of the sheets is wrong and the sounds of the room around you are unfamiliar. You open your eyes and it takes you a long moment to pull it all together. 

You slept in your clothes. You are at Mycroft’s vacation home, you watched David Andrews die, you watched Walsh get re-arrested and you said good-bye to your father. You push yourself up and glance around. You are alone in bed, but there is a note on the pillow beside you. Your heart cracks inside your chest and tears start to form in your eyes. 

“No, no, no,” you whisper as you reach for it and unfold it with shaking hands and see Sherlock’s neat script there on the paper.

**_Y/N,_ **

**_I’ve gone back…_ **

You can’t finish it. You jump out of bed and your body screams in pain, covered in bumps in bruises from last night’s adventure. You dash out to the living room, hoping to catch him, but the house is still, empty. You sink down to the rug in the middle of the room and allow the tears to come. You regret so much. You wanted him so badly, you wanted that life so deeply…

The sound of a key inside the front door lock causes your head to snap up and you watch as the door swings open and Sherlock appears, juggling two paper grocery sacks and tries to kick the door shut behind him. He spies you on the ground, your cheeks blotchy and stained with tears.

“Y/N!” He exclaims, “What are you doing down there?”

“What are you doing here?” You choke out. “I thought you left…”

“Didn’t you read the note? I said I went back out to get something for breakfast!” He sets the groceries down on the ground and stalks over to you. He reaches down and pulls you up. Feeling foolish, you wipe the tears on the backs of your hands.

“Give me a second,” you say, embarrassed, as you excuse yourself to the restroom to freshen up. You feel cautiously elated. He is still here, he was going to make breakfast. That had to be good news.

You splash water on your face and brush your teeth and comb your fingers through your hair. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you shrug, thinking this is as good as it's going to get for now. You pull the door open and run full on into Sherlock. You bump off his chest and stumble back, he reaches out and steadies you with a hand on each arm.

“Jesus, Sherlock, I wasn’t expecting--” But you are cut off as he pulls you against him, his lips covering yours, his arms wrapping around your smaller frame. Momentarily stunned, you respond a second later, parting your lips and gripping the front of his shirt in your fists. He has never kissed you like this before, with such eagerness and abandon. This kiss isn’t restrained, as all the ones that came before had been and you can’t taste even a hint of caution. He pulls away but holds you still and you are grateful, because you are still reeling.

“I didn’t want to tell you last night because it felt like good-bye,” he says, gazing down at you. “But I’ve loved you for quite some time and I will go on loving you, regardless of what comes. I thought you should know that.” You open your mouth but no words come. You stare up at him and he stares back at you. His eyes hold a twinkle that you have not seen in years, but there is something more there, something new, that you can’t quite place. You are becoming lost in it and still no words form in your mind. Finally, you clear your throat as a question pops into your head.

“What is it that you want, exactly, Sherlock?” You ask, gently. You know what you want, you know what you've always wanted and you are dying to know if it aligns with the consulting detective’s desires. His expression changes to one of confusion.

“Why… You, Y/N,” he states, as if it was painfully obvious.

“Yes, but in what way?” You push.

“All ways,” he tells you. “I’ve denied myself this one thing-  _ you _ \- for so long. But it’s always been what I’ve wanted. I just was never free to have it until now.” You swallow hard and rest your forehead against his chest for a beat before gazing back up at him. Suddenly, you are transported back in time and you are two kids standing in the rain on a darkened doorstep. You are both ready, finally ready. You close your eyes again and watch as your future plays out on the backs of your eyelids. Challenging, yes, but fulfilling and oh so wonderful it would be to have this man, by your side, loving you in all ways, for always. You open your eyes and smile up at him.

“So I’m free now,” you start. “And you’re free now… And I want you…” A small smirk tugs at Sherlock’s perfect bow shaped lips and he raises one eyebrow at you.

“Oh you want me, huh?”

“Mmmhmmm,” you purr, reveling in his rare playfulness. “And you want me…” 

“Very much, yes,” he confirms, his arms tightening around you. 

“Then there is just one thing I need from you first…” you say, your smile widening. Sherlock raises his eyebrows in silent question, awaiting your final caveat, the last barrier to your relationship. “Breakfast.” You reply and he almost sags with relief.

“Come then,” he says, releasing you and grasping your hand. “We can’t have you starting our life together on an empty stomach.” You grin like an idiot as you join him in preparing a full english, your first of many breakfasts together and even in this stark, unfamiliar kitchen, you finally feel like you are home.


End file.
